Fifty Shades of Christian
by WinterSunshine
Summary: 50 Shades series (incl. Fifty Shades Darker and Fifty Shades Freed) told from Christian's perspective/POV. When Miss Anastasia Steele falls into mega-CEO Christian Grey's office, his entire world shifts on its axis. He's trying to be with her the only way he knows, but Ana wants more... Rated M for language and lemons. ON HIATUS.
1. Start of Fifty Shades of Grey

This fanfiction starts where EL James left off with the short story at the end of _Fifty Shades Free_. I recommend you go back and read that first before beginning to read my fanfiction. I am very excited about writing this. I have often wondered what this all must have been like in Christian's eyes. It's a daunting task to write from this man's perspective, but I'm going to give it a shot.

Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: All the dialogue belongs to EL James.

_Saturday, May 14, 2011_

I've just hung up the phone, after an informative conversation with Ros and am scrolling through my emails on my laptop—which I've had Taylor deliver, along with a change of clothes. I am sitting in the living room of the largest suite at the Heathman, distracting myself with work, waiting for word from Anastasia, regarding the photo shoot for the article she's interviewed me for a few days prior.

At my elbow, my Blackberry buzzes and up on the screen pops an unfamiliar number.

It buzzes a second time, and I pick up.

"Grey."

"Er… Mr. Grey?" a female says after a hesitant moment. Her tone is soft and meek. "It's Anastasia Steele."

"Miss Steele," I say, pleasantly surprised, "How nice to hear from you."

"Um—we'd like to go ahead with the photo shoot for the article." She's nervous, I can hear her draw a hasty breath, and the thought makes me smirk. Even over the phone, I affect her. "Tomorrow," she continues, "if that's okay. Where would be convenient for you, sir?"

There that word is again: _Sir_. Oh, how I love to hear her say it. It does things to me…

"I'm staying at the Heathman in Portland. Shall we say nine thirty tomorrow morning?" I suggest. That will give me enough time to get a workout in. I'm going to need to blow some steam off before I see Anastasia Steele again.

"Okay," she agrees, "We'll see you there." Her voice sounds high and breathless.

"I look forward to it, Miss Steele."

And I do, really I do.

.

_Sunday, May 15, 2011_

It is ten after nine when I return from my workout in the Heathman's gym.

Upon entering my suite, I pull my Blackberry from my pocket and press "1" for speed dial. As I wait for Taylor to answer, I head into the bathroom to turn on the shower.

"Mr. Grey," he greets me.

"Taylor, call the receptionist and let me know where my photo shoot with Anastasia Steele will be taking place, please."

"Will do, Sir," he answers, and I hang up.

Under the cascade of hot water in the shower, images of the last time I saw her, at Claytons, in those ass-hugging jeans, and that form-fitting t-shirt return to me, and I can feel my body responding… Lord, I need to fuck this girl.

_First things, first, Grey… She may not even be interested._

Something like dread threatens to open up in my belly, but I stifle the feeling. The only thing to do is wait and see… So much waiting I've been doing in this past week.

Quickly, I soap off and wash my hair, aware that I don't have long before I need to be where I need to be.

As I'm drying off, my phone, which I've set on the counter, begins to ring.

"Grey," I snap into it, rubbing the towel over my head, hastily drying my hair.

"Mr. Grey, Miss Steele, Miss Kavanagh, Mr. Rodriguez and his assistant are waiting for you in Suite 218."

"Thank you, Taylor. I'll meet you in the hallway."

.

A few minutes later, I step into Suite 218, where immediately, my eyes are zeroing in on Miss Steele. She looks as appealing as ever, dressed in a smart pair of jeans and a white t-shirt; a dark blue cardigan pulled over it makes her eyes look absolutely depthless.

Her dark hair is once again pulled back, those blue eyes piercing through me. Again, I get that unnerving feeling that she can see right through me.

"Miss Steele, we meet again," I greet her, extending my hand toward her, eager, as ever, to touch her once more.

She blinks up at me rapidly, those luscious lashes fluttering, as she takes my hand. Her skin is so soft. I imagine what it would feel like. I imagine the skin hidden beneath her clothes is much softer… the swell, the valley of her breasts, her thighs…

"Mr. Grey, this is Katherine Kavanagh." Anastasia's voice interrupts my reverie, and I force myself to turn my eyes toward the woman standing next to her, who does not bat an eye as she steps forward.

"The tenacious Miss Kavanagh. How do you do?" I smile at her politely. "I trust you're feeling better? Anastasia said you were unwell last week."

"I'm fine, thank you, Mr. Grey," she tells me as she shakes my hand—her handshake is firm and confident. This woman very much-so personifies the personality of a journalist. "Thank you for taking the time to do this."

"It's a pleasure," I tell her, and almost involuntarily, my gaze turns back to Anastasia, because really, it's not Miss Kavanagh I'm doing this for; it's all Miss Steele. I watch her face flush that delicious pink color.

"This is Jose Rodriguez, our photographer," Anastasia tells me, who grins at the boy—about her age—standing near her. He grins back, and I wonder if there's something between them. Something about the way he looks at her bothers me. He's obviously very taken by her, and suddenly I feel very possessive.

When his gaze turns to me, I note the way his expression cools. "Mr. Grey." He nods at me.

"Mr. Rodriguez," I return, equally glacial. "Where would you like me?" I try and make my tone authoritative, though I know I'll be taking orders from the photographer. I don't like it one bit. Who is he to boss me around?

"Mr. Grey," the blond—Miss Kavanagh—interjects, "If you could sit here, please?" She directs me to a chair that sits against the wall, positioned in front of numerous lighting instruments, "And then we'll do a few standing, too."

Some fucking idiot Anastasia hasn't introduced me to switches on the lights, and they glare in my eyes, blinding me. He mumbles an apology and it takes everything in me not to snap at him. I am, after all, in the presence of a lady.

The photographer starts snapping. I gaze into the lens impassively, acutely aware that Anastasia is watching me. It's nerve wracking for some reason.

"If you could turn and look toward the door," The photographer directs, and then, "If you could move your arm like so," and "You can put it down again."

Twenty minutes pass, and I feel a hole burning in my profile from the way Miss Steele is watching me. A couple times I cannot resist, and I turn my gaze toward her, our eyes locking. When this happens, she quickly glances away, flushing pink each time.

The color of her skin is distracting…

Finally, Miss Kavanagh interrupts. It is clear that she is running the show here.

"Enough sitting," she says, "Standing, Mr. Grey?"

I stand, and the idiot takes away the chair. The photographer's camera starts clicking away once again. Five minutes later, he announces that we're finished.

A bubble of disappointment rises inside me. This means that, once again, I'm going to be leaving Miss Steele's presence. And once again, this will all be for naught, and I will have not initiated a thing between us. Inspiration hits me. I'm hungry after my workout, and there's a café just down the street. I passed it during my run this morning.

"Great," Miss Kavanagh enthuses, "Thank you again, Mr. Grey." She shakes my hand once more. Her grip is firm and confident, but then I could tell that much from the way she holds herself—tall, shoulders back. She is so sure of herself, unlike Anastasia, who is meek and mild and easily embarrassed. Submissive. That's what I like about her.

"I look forward to reading the article, Miss Kavanagh," I tell her, and then I turn to Anastasia, who is standing by the door. "Will you walk with me, Miss Steele?"

"Sure," she answers, and glances nervously at her friend, confused I'm sure.

I wish everyone a good day, and open the door for Anastasia, gesturing that she should step out first. I follow her into the corridor, and Taylor follows me.

"I'll call you, Taylor."

He doesn't say a word; but obediently heads down the hall, back toward his room to wait for word. I turn my gaze back to Anastasia's face, finding her wide blue eyes fixed on me, cautious and nervous.

"I wondered if you would join me for coffee this morning." And as I say the words, anxiety rises in my chest. Why would she say yes? And if not, if she says 'no', then I will be on my way, and I will try my best to forget about the prospect, of her and me.

"I have to drive everyone home," she mumbles, gazing at her hands, twisting her fingers together.

"Taylor," I call, not taking my eyes from her. I know he'll stop. He does, making his way back to us—I can hear his footfalls coming up the corridor. "Are they based at the university?" I ask her. She nods. "Taylor can take them. He's my driver" _among other things _"We have a large 4x4 here, so he'll be able to take the equipment, too."

What lengths I'm going to, just to share a cup of coffee with this gorgeous young woman.

"Mr. Grey?" Taylor asks upon reaching us.

"Please, can you drive the photographer, his assistant, and Miss Kavanagh back home?

"Certainly, sir."

"There," I confirm, "Now can you join me for coffee?" I smile. A done deal. No more obstacles.

I watch as her lips turn down into a frown. "Um—Mr. Grey, er—this really…" she stammers, "Look, Taylor doesn't have to drive them home. I'll swap vehicles with Kate, if you give me a moment."

I can't help but smile, really smile. She's said yes. I open the door to the suite for her once more, and she disappears inside momentarily.

I lean against the wall to wait.

She emerges a few minutes later.

"Okay, let's do coffee." And she flushes once more.

I grin again. If she's open to having coffee with me, what else could she be open to? "After you, Miss Steele," And we make our way down the hall toward the elevators.


	2. Chapter 2

_Sunday, May 15, 2011_

It's a gorgeous day outside. The sun is shining, with only a light breeze, and it's not too chilly at all.

I am holding Miss Steele's hand, warm and small in mine, as we turn left outside the Heathman and head down the sidewalk toward the street. We wait at the edge of the sidewalk for the crosswalk light to change.

Here I am, in the street, holding a girl's hand. When was the last time I did this? Oh, of course I've held my other submissives' hands on occasion, but for some reason this feels different.

_Hold it, Grey. She's not your anything… Yet._

I am glad to be with here, something light and airy in my chest. I feel almost… normal, doing this.

I have four blocks of walking to think about what I'm to say to this woman, how I am to broach the subject. I've never had someone who hasn't been aware of the nature of the relationship I have in mind before.

When we reach the door of the Portland Coffee House, I'm forced to release her hand so that I can open the door for her.

Once we're inside, I suggest she chooses a table for us, while I get the drinks. I ask her what she'd like.

"I'll have… um—English Breakfast Tea, bag out," she requests.

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. I took her for a coffee girl. Surely a university student drinks coffee?

"No coffee?" I ask.

"I'm not keen on coffee," she says.

I smile. "Okay," I acquiesce, "Bag out tea. Sugar?"

For a moment she stares at me, stunned, and I'm confused. Have I said something wrong?

"No thanks," she finally answers, eyes turned down again.

"Anything to eat?"

"No thank you."

I head to the counter, stepping up to the back of the line of customers waiting to be served. I rarely wait to be served. I'm taken as a priority nearly everywhere I go, so it's unusual to have to wait.

Finally, I'm at the top of the line.

"Next customer, please?" She short haired blond calls out and I step up to the counter.

"One English breakfast tea, bag out; a mocha, and a blueberry muffin, please."

I receive a tray, and the helpful barista places everything on it.

I find Miss Steele waiting at a quaint round table and approach her. She seems lost in thought, staring down at her hands and biting her lip.

Oh, how I'd like to bite that lip…

The errant thought enters my mind unexpectedly and I put it aside, for now.

"Penny for your thoughts?" I ask as I approach.

Her face flushes—she sure blushes a lot—and shakes her head.

I set the tray down on the table, hand Anastasia her order, place my own at the spot across from her, and set the tray aside.

I sit and cross my legs. I can't help but push it. I need to know what she's thinking. Suddenly, every inane detail of her life has become important to me. I need to know who she is, what her life is like. If she's had no experience in my world—which I doubt she has, but you never know—I need to know what she's like, so that I can judge how to go about introducing it to her.

"Your thoughts?" I inquire.

"This is my favorite tea," she blurts, and the information is unexpected, but useful. I frown, suspecting there was more in her head than that.

I watch her remove the tea bag from the packaging, swirl it in the water for barely two seconds, and then pull it back out again. What an unusual way to drink tea, and I find myself cocking my head at her.

She glances at me. "I like my tea black and weak."

But it must have no flavor… Oh, Miss Steele, could I introduce you to some flavor…

I see that she's not going to volunteer any information, and so I know I'll need to take the reigns. The thought is comforting. This is familiar, having all the control. This is what I know, what I revel in.

"I see," I say, "Is he your boyfriend?" I've been dying to know this piece of information since I saw the look she and the photographer exchanged during the photo shoot. They seem very fond of each other, and knowing this is crucial to me. If they're involved, I will not interfere. As much as I would have liked to stay, I'll be on my way.

"Who?" she asks, clearly taken off guard.

"The photographer. Jose Rodriguez."

She laughs, and the sound is like chorusing bells, beautiful and clear. I'm sidetracked for a moment, hearing it.

"No," she explains, "Jose's a good friend of mine, that's all. Why did you think he was my boyfriend?"

"The way you smiled at him, and he at you."

"He's more like family." And now she's whispering.

I nod, acknowledging this. This is good, this is what I need to know. The anxious knot I hadn't noticed before unwinds, and I am able to peel back the paper on my blueberry muffin. She's staring.

"Do you want some?" I ask her, amused by the way she watches. I'm more than willing to share, to feed her… Hmm…

"No thanks." Her lips turn down again, and she casts her gaze to her hands, which are knotted in her lap.

"And the boy I met yesterday, at the store. He's not your boyfriend?" I continue. I need to cover all my bases.

"No. Paul's just a friend. I told you yesterday. Why do you ask?"

"You seem nervous around men," I tell her, and though it's not quite a direct answer to her question, it's impertinent, nonetheless.

"I find you intimidating," she admits, flushing again. She still isn't looking at me.

I can't hide my gasp, and again I am reminded of the way those blue eyes of hers have seemed to pin me from the very start, that they seem to see right through me. For a moment, I am sure she knows, but then, it's just an assumption. I recall that she knows nothing about me.

"You should find me intimidating. You're very honest," I tell her as her gaze falls once more, "Please don't look down. I like to see your face."

She lifts her eyes to mine, and I try my best at a reassuring smile.

"It gives me some sort of clue what you might be thinking. You're a mystery, Miss Steele." But her eyes are very open, very honest, almost like an open book. I can read every emotion in them. Her thoughts, however, what's going on her head—I have no idea of.

"There's nothing mysterious about me," she dismisses.

"I think you're very self-contained. Except when you blush, of course, which is often. I just wish I knew what you were blushing about." I don't take my eyes off her as I tear off a small piece of muffin and pop it in my mouth. As if in direct response to my words, color rises in her face once again, crawling up her chest, her neck, her cheeks.

"Do you always make such personal observations?" she inquires.

"I hadn't realized I was. Have I offended you?"

"No."

"Good," I say, relieved.

"But you're very high-handed."

Shock lifts my eyebrows, surprised at her audacity. Just when I think I know her, that smart mouth comes out again. My face feels warm, and I wonder if I'm blushing now, too. Maybe she's rubbing off on me… I stop to think about that for a moment. Hmm, rubbing off on me…

"I'm used to getting my own way, Anastasia. In all things."

"I don't doubt it," she says, "Why haven't you asked me to call you by your first name?" Her question holds zip, candor, and if I'm not mistaken, a slight hint of antagonism.

"The only people who use my given name are my family and a few close friends. That's the way I like it." _And if I have my way, the only way you'll be addressing me is, 'Sir' and 'Mr. Grey'._

There's a quiet moment. Anastasia takes a sip of her tea, and I take another bite of my muffin. It's quite tasty.

"Are you an only child?" I ask. I assume the answer to this is affirmative, recalling the background check I had Welch run after our interview.

"Yes."

"Tell me about your parents," I request.

She seems slightly confused, but relents either way. "My mom lives in Georgia with her new husband, Bob. My stepdad lives in Montesano."

"Your father?"

"My father died when I was a baby," she says.

"I'm sorry," I say, and am immediately aware that I am—sorry. I feel pain for this girl, and this troubles me. I've never felt pain for anyone before. It's hard even feeling pain for myself.

"I don't remember him," she says.

"And your mother remarried?" Of course, I already know this.

She snorts. "You could say that."

I frown at her, knowing the answer already, but wishing she'd tell me anyway. "You're not giving much away, are you?"

"Neither are you."

"You've interviewed me once already, and I can recollect some quite probing questions then." I smirk at her, knowing full well that she's thinking of the 'gay' question, just as I am.

"My mom is wonderful," she says, and for a minute I'm derailed by the way she's dived into sharing this information, but I catch up quickly. "She's an incurable romantic," Anastasia continues, "She's currently on her fourth husband."

I raise my eyebrows, feigning surprise. Of course, this information isn't new to me.

"I miss her," she tells me honestly, "She has Bob now. I just hope he can keep an eye on her and pick up the pieces when her harebrained schemes don't go as planned." When she smiles, I can see how much she adores her mom. We have that in common—one of few things, I'm sure.

I take a sip of my coffee. "Do you get along with your step-father?" I ask.

"Of course. I grew up with him. He's the only father I know."

"And what's he like?"

"Ray?" she says, "he's… taciturn." She's sharing information freely now. It seems a dam has been opened when it comes to speaking of others, just as it had when she spoke of Kate back in my office. Hmm.

"That's it?"

"He likes soccer—European soccer especially—and bowling, and fly-fishing, and making furniture. He's a carpenter. Ex-army." She exhales softly, a sigh.

"You lived with him?"

"Yes. My mom met Husband Number Three when I was fifteen. I stayed with Ray."

I frown in confusion. Don't girls normally prefer to live with their mothers? I know Mia was always so much more open with our mother than she was with our father. This woman is constantly surprising me.

"You didn't want to live with your mom?"

"Husband Number Three lived in Texas. My home was in Montesano. And… you know, my mom was newly married." Abruptly she stops and switches gears. "Tell me about your parents."

I shrug. "My dad's a lawyer, my mom is a pediatrician. They live in Seattle." There's not much to know, and I wonder why she's so curious about me. Her life is of much more interest, but I suppose the least I can do is volunteer a bit of my own information, after she's been so forthcoming with her own.

"What do your siblings do?" she probes.

"Elliot's in construction, and my little sister is in Paris, studying cookery under some renowned French chef." I keep my answers short, hoping we can steer the conversation back to her. I have no interest in talking about myself. Why would she want to know anything about me?

"I hear Paris is lovely," she says quietly.

"It's beautiful," I agree, "Have you been?" And I'm relieved that the attention is back on her.

"I've never left mainland USA."

This doesn't surprise me. Judging by her upbringing, I doubt vacations like that could have been very affordable. I would love to take her one day. I would love to do that for her, show her the world, in a sense.

"Would you like to go?"

"To Paris?" Suddenly her voice is high-pitched with—what? Excitement, disbelief? It's hard to tell. "Of course! But it's England that I'd really like to visit."

I tilt my head, running my finger over my lower lip, conscious that is it just one of my many mannerisms. She seems distracted by it, and I have to suppress my smirk. It's just a pretty face, baby.

"Because?"

She blinks, those gorgeous lashes fluttering. "It's the home of Shakespeare, Austen, the Bronte sisters, Thomas Hardy. I'd like to see the places that inspired those people to write such wonderful books."

And we're back to the hearts and flowers. Abruptly, I am distracted by the thought. If she thinks these books are so wonderful, I'm willing to bet she has ideals about the life she'd like to live. I am nothing like the men in those books…

She seems suddenly distracted, glancing at the delicate wristwatch she wears—it has to be sterling silver. She deserves platinum, white gold in the least.

"I'd better go," she says, "I have to study."

"For your exams?" I recall that she is a student—oh yes.

"Yes," she says, "They start Tuesday."

"Where's Miss Kavanagh's car?" I inquire, deciding I'll walk her to it.

"In the hotel parking lot."

"I'll walk you back."

"Thank you for the tea, Mr. Grey," she says.

I grin, knowing I have so much more to offer than tea. "You're welcome, Anastasia. It's my pleasure. Come," I request, standing and holding out my hand.

Obediently, she takes it, and we head out.

As we head back along the sidewalk, I'm thinking of all the things I could buy her. A new watch, a car, clothes… Oh, but I like the way her ass looks in those jeans…

"Do you always wear jeans?"

"Mostly," she responds, a little confused.

I nod. She should be wearing pencil skirts, and silk wrap dresses, to show off those legs. Those legs I would so love to have wrapped around my waist…

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Her voice interrupts my inappropriate thoughts.

A girlfriend. I smirk at the thought. "No, Anastasia, I don't do the girlfriend thing." _I do the submissive thing_.

She seems confused by my answer. Numerous emotions flit across her face, and as she turns, I see a biker coming up the wrong side of the street, going too fast. She trips, lurching headfirst into the traffic whizzing past.

"Shit, Ana!" I hear my panicked cry, and on instinct, I'm pulling the hand I'm still holding, hard. The cyclist whips past, just shy of clipping the hell out of her. If he'd been going slower, within reach, I'd have his balls.

But right now, I'm more concerned about Miss Steele.

"Are you okay?" I inquire of her, one arm holding her securely against me, where she's safe, the other on her face, searching for any sign of harm she may have endured. My thumb brushes that full, pouty, bottom lip, so soft against my skin, and her eyes go slightly cloudy, unfocused; her pupils dilate, and her gaze goes to my mouth.

I know in this instant that she wants me to kiss her, and I'm shocked that I want the same thing. I want this woman's lips on mine, to kiss her hard, to feel the shape of that mouth on mine, her tongue against my tongue, to feel her head in my hands. And after that, I'd like to take her back to the hotel room, tie her to the bed, and fuck her, hard.

I close my eyes, forcing her out of my vision, and I shake my head. No. No, I can't do this. The chance of this happening is impossible. I think back to our conversation in the coffee shop. I know more about her now. I know where she came from, her love of classic literature. I know, deep down, that this is not the life for her.

She deserves more than this. She deserves hearts and flowers, not whips and chains.

"Anastasia, you should steer clear of me. I'm not the man for you." My voice is low, and as much as it pains me to say it, I know my words are true. I watch her for a moment, watch her take what I've said in, process it. She' s holding her breath. I need to let her go. She's too close, it's distracting. She smells amazing, so sexy, of sandalwood and freesia, maybe?

"Breathe, Anastasia, breathe," I urge her. I'm still supporting most of her weight. She's slight in my arms. "I'm going to stand you up and let you go." Gently, I push her away from me, and I have some space again.

I keep my hands on her shoulders, just in case she needs the support still, and I study her face closely. She looks… desolate, lost and bereft.

"I've got this, thank you," she says, and her voice is low with embarrassment.

"For what?" I ask. What have I done to earn her thanks?

"For saving me." Her voice is just a whisper.

"That idiot was riding the wrong way," I say, "I'm glad I was here. I shudder to think what could have happened to you. Do you want to come and sit down in the hotel for a moment?" _We will sit in the lobby area,_ I tell myself. I don't think I could trust myself if I took her up to my room. I can't make sense of it, but I have the most overwhelming urge to fuck her and make her mine, right now.

She shakes her head 'no' and I know it's for the best.

She turns now, to make her way across the street, the light giving us the go ahead. I follow behind her closely, careful to keep enough distance, but to stay close enough so that I can act quickly, should she trip again.

Once we're in front of the hotel, she turns to me, but she doesn't look me in the eye. She's hurt, and I don't know why. But the realization that I've hurt her in some way does strange, strangling things to my insides. _I _hurt.

"Thanks for the tea and doing the photo shoot."

"Anastasia… I…" I begin to say, but for once I am at a loss for words. I don't know what to say to her, I don't know how to make it better. Well, maybe I do… But no—I've promised myself I wouldn't. But I want to see her again. Maybe this is the time to ask her to dinner… But I've already told her I'm not the man for her. I've already told her she needs to stay away from me…

"What, Christian?" Anastasia snaps, now angry, impatient possibly.

"Good luck with your exams," I say, knowing this is the only thing I can say. This is the best thing for her. I will go now, and I will leave her be, to live the life she so deserves to live, free of all the shades of my fucked-upness.

"Thanks," and if I'm correct, I hear the slight inclination of sarcasm in her tone, "Good-bye, Mr. Grey."

And I watch her disappear into the underground garage.

I war with myself for several minutes, standing there on the threshold of the hotel.

Finally, when I've decided I've stood there long enough, I head back into the lobby, striding past the receptionist desk, and back toward the elevators.

.

It's late. I've had a busy day, full of meetings, and my Blackberry is charging by the bed, nearly drained.

I'm sitting at the table, showered, in pajama pants and a t-shirt, bare feet propped on the chair across from me.

I'm going over some mergers and acquisitions, having to do with the new solar-powered cell-phone we're trying to distribute. There have been a couple hiccups in the plan so far, but nothing that can't be solved.

One minute I'm responding to Ros's email, the next I'm searching Thomas Hardy first editions on Google.

I can do this—send her a gift, I know she will adore. A good luck gift, for her exams—but also, a warning.

I find a set of _Tess of the d'Ubervilles _and decide on the purchase.

Quickly, I glance at the time in the corner of the Macbook screen. It's after midnight, and I'm sure Taylor is sleeping down the hall.

I'll call him in the morning, and send him out to get the books.

I go to the desk, pull out a plain piece of cardstock. I need to make this personal, so she'll know it was from me.

I could simply sign it, wish her luck on her exams, but no… That would send mixed signals, make it seem like I wish to see her again.

_But I do want to see her again._

_You're good for nothing, Grey. You're a fucked up son of a bitch. A complete and utter screw up._

I sit and think for awhile.

What she needs is a warning.

Two minutes later, after entering '_Thomas Hardy, Tess of d'Uberville quotes' _into my search engine, I find the perfect inscription, and scrawl it down.

…

_Why didn't you tell me there was danger? Why didn't you warn me?_

_Ladies know what to guard against, because they read novels that tell them of these tricks…_


	3. Chapter 3

_Friday, May 20 2011_

It's past noon the next day, and I still haven't heard anything from Anastasia regarding the package I've sent her the day previous. Either she hasn't received it, or she's avoiding me.

I have half a mind to call Taylor and demand he find out what's going on.

Before I can, my cell is buzzing in my hand and I glance at the caller ID.

Elliot? What does my damn brother want?

"Elliot," I answer, immediately second-guessing myself. I should not have answered the phone.

"Baby bro!" he says, all boisterous and just… so himself.

"Hello, Elliot. What do you need?"

He scoffs, offended. "Can't I call my brother without needing something?"

"You rarely do." I say, pacing over to the window. The sun is fading, evening approaching, and again I find myself thinking of Miss Steele. What is she doing at this moment?

"I was wondering if you'd like to catch dinner, a drink, catch up? I haven't seen you in awhile."

I suddenly recall that I mentioned in one of my earlier emails this week that I'm staying in Seattle this week. _Shit. Why did I tell him that?_

Not that I don't want to see Elliot. I look up to him in a lot of ways—though I would never mention that to him. I was hoping to keep my schedule free, in case an opportunity with Miss Steele were to, perchance, pop up.

I shake my head, chiding myself.

_Get over it, Grey. You and Ana are not going to happen._

"Christian? You still there?"

"Yeah—sorry. Sure. Where would you like to eat?"

.

We're heading back up to my suite—lost in a surprisingly good conversation. It always surprises me how much I like hanging out with my older brother. It's nice to be able to listen to the inane details of someone else's life.

Elliot is always more than willing to talk about his life—mostly it's sexual conquests, describing the latest lady he's had a one night stand with. But tonight he's talking about work—something we have in common. We've been discussing the latest in solar panels.

"The house I'm working on now is run completely on solar panels. It's amazing…"

He's saying something else now, helping himself to a Bourbon at the mini bar, when my Blackberry buzzes in my pocket. Pulling it out, I see _Anastasia Steele_ pop up on the screen.

_Fuck me. _She's calling me.

"Anastasia?" I answer in greeting. I sound surprised.

"Why did you send me the books?" Not quite the question I was expecting, but then… At least she's received them. Hold on—she sounds… off.

"Anastasia, are you okay? You sound strange."

"I'm not the strange one, you are." Her words slip and bleed together a little, and suddenly the puzzle pieces together.

"Anastasia, have you been drinking?" I demand, suddenly very angry. What the hell is she doing?

"What's it to you?" she retorts indignantly.

_Why, Miss Steele, if you were mine, I'd love to turn your backside a delicious shade of pink right about now…_ My palm twitches at the thought, but I force myself to sound blasé as I answer her.

"I'm… curious. Where are you?" I'm going to go and pick her up.

"In a bar."

I roll my eyes. _No fucking duh._ "Which bar?"

"A bar in Portland." Could she be any more obtuse? I mean, seriously.

"How are you getting home?"

"I'll find a way." Her casual answer nearly boils my blood.

"Which bar are you in?" I have to fight to keep my tone even.

"Why did you send me the books, Christian?" she inquires.

"Anastasia," I say, running a frustrated hand through my hair. My fucking god, this woman is unbelievable. "Where are you? Tell me now."

She laughs, that gorgeous chorus bell sound, and it throws me off. "You're so… domineering," she giggles.

"Ana, so help me, where the fuck are you?" The malice in my tone brings it down a timbre, low and soft.

As if completely unaffected by me, she giggles again. Fucking lord, would I like to show her how much of an affect I can have. "I'm in Portland… s' a long way from Seattle."

"Where. In. Portland?" I am beyond frustrated.

"Goodnight, Christian." I can nearly hear her grin over the line.

"Ana! Do not hang up the phone!" I shout, but halfway through she's gone.

Anastasia Steele just hung up on me! Un-fucking-believable. This girl is more feisty than I would have thought. The realization may have turned me on if I weren't so angry right now.

"What was that about?" Elliot asks from where he sits on the couch across the room. He's nearly finished his first Bourbon.

I ignore him, scrolling through my phone for Welch's number.

"Welch." He picks up on the first ring.

"Welch, locate Miss Anastasia Steele for me now," I growl into the phone.

"Right away, sir." He's completely professional, and in the background, I can hear him typing away on the keys of his computer. After a moment he says, "Sending the coordinates now, sir."

"Thank you."

"Certainly, Mr. Grey. Will that be all?"

"Yes," I say, and hang up. Glancing at my screen, I note the pin Welch has dropped.

_I see you, Miss Steele._

"Elliot, we're going for a drive," I say, grabbing my jacket.

He groans, pulling his feet off the table reluctantly. "Dude, I was just getting comfortable."

"I'm taking you to see some girls. College age."

His eyes light up, and he ditches the glass on the edge of the counter. "What are we waiting for?" He strides past me toward the door.

I follow him out into the hallway, dialing Taylor quickly to let him know we need a ride.

I lock the door behind us, and as we head toward the bank of elevators, I dial Ana's number once more.

"Hi," she answers, her tone meek, timid, ashamed. As it should be. What a lesson I could teach her… But no, I need her consent first.

"I'm coming to get you."

.

The music in the bar is loud and thumping. I can feel it reverberating in my chest cavity. The lights are bright, and they spin hectically, lighting the place alternating colors of blue, green, red and white.

Now to find her… I scan the bar quickly, searching for that familiar face, that tight body. First I'm looking out on the dance floor, but after a moment I wonder if Ana's even a dancer.

"Who are you looking for?" Elliot shouts over the music, at my elbow. I don't bother to answer him, spying Ana's friend Kate, in the corner.

Immediately I'm striding towards them.

A couple of the people she's with glance up at me, and then away, back to their conversations.

"Mr. Grey," Kate says, standing. "What are you doing here?"

"What a pleasure it is to see you again, Miss Kavanagh," I say. "I'm here with my brother Elliot," I say, gesturing to him, who stands beside me. "Elliot, this is Katherine Kavanagh; Miss Kavanagh, my brother, Elliot Grey."

Elliot's eyeing her in _that_ way, and I cringe inwardly._ Please don't give my name a bad reputation. If you hurt Kate, Ana's never going to agree to anything I ask of her._

"Kate, please," she's giggling as Elliot takes her hand and kisses it, "Call me Kate."

"Kate. How nice it is to meet you," Elliot says to her, that wicked gleam in his eye.

"Kate—is Ana here with you?"

Miss Kavanagh turns her attention back to me momentarily. "Uh, I think she stepped outside."

"Thank you," I say, and immediately I'm striding back toward the doors.

Emerging once again into the night, I spy her almost instantly. And that damn fucking photographer. It only takes one look their way to see she's not into the way he's holding her.

He's got his arms wrapped around her, holding her body to his, whispering something in her ear.

As I move swiftly toward them, I hear her pleading. "Jose, no."

It takes all I have in me not to yell at this scum of a boy and rip him away from her.

"I think the lady said no." My tone sounds murderous, and I like it that way.

_Get your fucking hands off of her, you prick, or I'll fucking make you._

Obediently, he releases his hold on her and steps back.

"Grey." He has the nerve to greet me.

I'm about to give this boy a piece of my mind, giving him the worst glare I can muster, when Ana bends at the waist, vomit spewing from her mouth.

"Ugh—Dios mio, Ana!" I vaguely hear the boy cry, but as he jumps back, I step forward, sweeping Ana's hair up and back, winding it into a makeshift ponytail. With the other hand on her shoulder, I lead her over to a raised flowerbed, where she'll have more privacy.

"If you're going to throw up again, do it here. I'll hold you," I tell her. Most of her weight sags against the arm I have wrapped around her shoulders, my other hand still holding her hair back.

Her hands come up, weak and clumsily, shoving against my chest, attempting to push me away, but she throws up again. And once more.

I ignore the stench of the vile concoction emptying her body.

Each time she retches, I feel her shoulder blades pull together, and desperately I wish she'd stop, because I know how awful this must be for her.

She vomits again, and again.

_Fucking Christ, how much did she drink_?

After what seems like forever, the vomiting stops, and she grips the edge of the brick wall, gasping for breath. I imagine her arms are like jelly, and so I release her slowly, ready to support her again if she needs it.

I pull my handkerchief from the inside pocket of my jacket and hand it to her in silence.

She doesn't look at me as she wipes her mouth clean. I imagine she's mortified.

In this moment, I feel an undercurrent of concern for her, but more than that I am angry. _Fucking Jesus,_ am I angry. Angry at her for putting herself in this position, angry at Jose for pressing his suit, angry at Katherine for leaving her alone in this state, angry at myself more than anything—for not being here, for letting her out of my site, for not calling her sooner. This whole thing could have been avoided if I'd called sooner.

As she lifts her gaze to mine, I force composure. I will not let her know how angry I am, because the concern is growing, overshadowing the anger.

I want to take her home and put her to bed. She needs to sleep.

I watch her eyes shift over to where the boy stands near the entrance.

_Get the fuck out of here, you prick,_ I want to snap. But I restrain myself. Much to my satisfaction, I watch her glare at the boy.

Seemingly intimidated by the look she casts him, he mutters some feeble excuse and heads back inside.

And we're finally alone.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs lowly, twisting my handkerchief in her fingers, watching it, as if it is the most interesting thing on the planet.

Sorry? What on fucking Earth is she sorry for?

"What are you sorry for, Anastasia?"

"The phone call, mainly," she says, "Being sick. Oh, the list is endless." The shame is evident in her tone, and in the dim light the outside light of the bar gives off, I see the blush flood her face.

"We've all been here," I assure her, "Perhaps not quite as dramatically as you. It's about knowing your limits, Anastasia. I mean, I'm all for pushing the limits"—_Christ, would I love to push your limits right now, Miss Steele_—"but really, this is beyond the pale. Do you make a habit of this kind of behavior?"

"No," she says, sheepish, "I've never been drunk before and right now I have no desire to ever be again."

Well, that, at least, makes me feel a bit better.

Ana's face goes pale, and she wobbles. Shit, is she going to faint?

I grip her before she falls, hoisting her off her feet. If she's going to pass out, she can do it where she's safe in my arms.

"Come on, I'll take you home." My voice is soft, close to her ear. Though she's tainted with the reek of alcohol and vomit, that lovely freesia and sandalwood scent enters my nostrils again.

"I need to tell Kate," she murmurs weakly.

"My brother can tell her." I head toward the Audi, where Taylor waits.

"What?"

"My brother Elliot is talking to Miss Kavanagh," I inform her. Possibly more, now that we've given him some time… Oh, Elliot, please don't do anything idiotic…

"Oh?" She's confused.

"He was with me when you phoned," I explain.

"In Seattle?" I can tell she's still bewildered, and I'm surprised by the amount of patience I have with her, in this moment.

"No, I'm staying at the Heathman." Still… I never left. I don't know if I can… I balk at that thought. Where the hell did that come from?

"How did you find me?" she's inquiring now.

Well, there's no time like the present for honesty… "I tracked your cell phone, Anastasia. Do you have a jacket or a purse?"

"Er… Yes, I came with both." She's squirming in my arms now. "Christian, please, I need to tell Kate. She'll worry."

For a moment I think about telling her no, taking her straight home. Because, really, she should be in bed, resting. Who am I, at the moment, to tell her what to do, though? I have no hold over her… Yet.

I sigh. "If you must." I set her carefully on her feet, and lead her back into the bar by the hand. I'm worried that if I let her go, she may collapse.

Ana leads me back to the table in the corner, where we find only one familiar person. Kate is gone, and I imagine she's on the dance floor with Elliot. That's where he does most of his seducing.

The boy sitting at the table confirms this when Ana asks.

I watch Ana struggle into her jacket—a casual black thing, Walmart brand I imagine. She slings her small, black leather (fake) shoulder bag over her shoulder and across her body. She touches my arm and leans up on her tiptoes, enveloping me with her presence, her nearness, her smell.

"She's on the dance floor," she yells in my ear.

I can see the way our closeness affects her. To be honest, it affects me too, but I control the response of my body.

I roll my eyes at the obvious lust in her eyes—her body is so easy to read—and take her hand again. There is no way anything is happening tonight. Not when she's in this predicament.

I lead her to the bar and order a large glass of iced water.

"Drink," I shout at her as I pass her the vestibule.

She stares up at me through her lashes and takes a teeny, nervous sip.

"All of it," I insist. We're not moving from this spot until she's drunk that entire glass of water. She's going to have one hell of a headache in the morning, and part of me believes she'd be getting what she deserves. The other part wants this night to be over and done with, for her to wake up in the morning with no lasting symptoms from this night.

She needs hydration either way. I don't want her passing out on me.

As I think this, she sways again, her eyes glazing over a little, and automatically I reach out to steady her. She doesn't need any more encouragement—she gulps the glass of water down.

Once she's finished—I find a great deal of satisfaction in the fact—I take the glass from her and set it on the bar, leaving the bartender to deal with it.

Taking her hand once more, I lead her toward the dance floor. While we're searching for my brother, we might as well have a little fun. I smirk, feeling her resistance.

_Oh no, Ana. Don't be shy with me._

I coax her into a little quick step, holding her body tightly against mine, mostly so I can support her. I try to block from my mind the way her breasts press against my chest as we move. Her breathing is erratic against my neck.

I easily spot Elliot and Kate through the throngs of sweaty, grinding dancers—Christ, have some decency people—and I move us toward them.

"I'm taking Ana home. Please keep me updated on where you end up." I shout close to Elliot's ear.

Elliot just grins at me, and pulls Kate closer.

There. All figured out. Now I can take Miss Steele home to bed. Ah, but alas, only to sleep…

I dance us back off the dance floor, but as we reach the edge, I feel Ana start to fade. Her body turns to Jello, and she's going down.

Quickly I react, catching her before she falls.

"Fuck!" I cry.

I scoop her into my arms, cradling her against my chest.

I begin to make my way toward the doors. Someone tries to stop me, asks if I need any help. I brush them off.

Taylor is waiting where I've left him, and when he sees me carrying Miss Steele toward him he jumps out, rushing around the Audi to open the back door.

He stands back in silence as I slide her easily across the buttery back seat and climb in beside her.

Carefully, I smooth her hair away from her face, loose and damp.

"Where to, Mr. Grey?" Taylor inquires as he climbs back into the driver's seat.

"The Heathman, Taylor," I say, not looking away from Ana's face.

She really is quite beautiful. She has a beautiful heart-shaped face, and relaxed in sleep, her lips are slightly parted, full and pouty. They look so soft… and I want to kiss them.

Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks; there's a slight pucker between her brows.

I smooth it with my finger, and it disappears under my touch.

.

When we arrive back at the hotel, it's after one in the morning.

Taylor helps me get Ana up to my suite.

He stands at the bedroom door as I lay her gently across my bed.

"Will that be all, Mr. Grey?"

"Get me some orange juice and some Advil, please, Taylor," I murmur, unable to take my eyes off the peaceful image of Miss Steele.

I manage to remove her jacket, her shoes, her socks and her jeans, all without waking her. She stirs slightly as I slip the denim over her hips, but that is all.

Something clenches tight in my throat. I imagine her in the photographer's bed for a short, dark moment. Unresponsive, unable to put up any sort of a fight… I am so fucking relieved that she's here with me.

After the orange juice is in the fridge, I return to the bedroom.

She's curled up under the duvet where I've left her, snoring softly. Her cheeks are slightly flushed… I am again disarmed by the depth of her beauty.

I remove my jacket, my shirt, my pants. I slip into a pair of PJ pants, and after only a moment of hesitation, crawl in beside her.

A first. I've never slept with a woman before. I've never even had a woman in my bed, now that I come to think about it.

I turn onto my side, propping myself up on my elbow, unable to tear my gaze from her face.

I could stare at her all night… Maybe I will.


	4. Chapter 4

_Saturday, May 21, 2011_

When I wake just after six, I wake peacefully.

In the few short hours of sleep I had, there were no nightmares, no flashbacks, no sweating or calling out in my sleep. Just serene, empty darkness.

I'm not fully awake before I realize I'm not on my side of the bed. I am wrapped around Anastasia Steele like a vine, and this starts me completely awake, my head jerking up off the pillow her breasts have made.

She murmurs unintelligibly in her sleep, and sighs.

Carefully, I extricate myself, heart pounding.

What the hell possessed me in my sleep to do this? I'm pleasantly warm and well-rested despite the night of horror I've had.

I roll onto my back, where it's cold on my side of the mattress.

Waking up next to Anastasia Steele does things to me. It's clear I need to workout, in order to alleviate some of this… tension.

I get out of bed and change into a pair of sweats and a sleeveless t-shirt, careful to keep quiet in order not to wake the beautiful woman snoring—yes, snoring; a soft, almost melodic sound—in my bed.

Once I'm dressed, I go into the main room and pour a glass of orange juice. I gulp one down myself, needing fuel for my workout—but I'm too worked up to eat quite yet. I need to tame the monster quaking inside me before I can eat.

I leave the glass on her nightstand table, and two Advil, and then I sneak from the room as quietly as I can.

I call Taylor as I head toward the elevators.

"Taylor."

"Taylor, I need you to pick up a change of clothes for Miss Steele. Jeans, and a new pair of Converse."

"Certainly, sir. Anything else you need?"

"No."

.

As I set out on my run, dawn is just breaking over Broadway.

There's no need to pace myself—I take off down the street like a bullet. I need to burn this frisson off.

Anastasia Steele has spent the night in my bed, and I've not fucked her. Both of these things appall me.

I spent literally hours watching her sleep last night. Numerous times, I attempted to lay my head down and go to sleep, but it was impossible to tear my eyes from her. It was… different to sleep alongside someone, a woman. The companionship, to hear her breathing next to me in the darkness, to share her warmth beneath the sheets, it was… new.

I don't quite know what to make of the feelings I felt, simply because I've never felt them before. There was a strange sense of familiarity last night. Not as if I'd done this before, but instead that it just felt… Right, in a way.

I shake the thoughts off, waiting for a light to change.

This can't happen again.

This woman, Miss Anastasia Steele, is awakening things in me I've never felt before, things I can't process, feelings that I've too long suppressed, or maybe even never felt at all. I can't make sense of them. I can't tell one from the other.

I run five miles one way, and five miles back. I am shocked when it takes me only an hour and a half to complete the exercise. When I come back upon the entrance to the Heathman, I am relieved, feeling… better.

Just to make sure, I do a few reps of weights in the gym downstairs.

I am soaked in sweat from the intensity of my workout, and I head back up to the suite in hopes of a shower. A thrill runs through me when I remember that Ana is waiting there, in my bed…

_Shake it off, Grey._

I stop by Taylor's room. I barely have time to finish my knock before he pulls the door open, handing me a Neiman's shopping bag.

"A change of clothes and a new pair of shoes for Miss Steele, sir."

"Good. Could you call the desk and order one of everything from the breakfast menu for me? An egg white omelet for myself, and Twining's English Breakfast tea, if they have it. It's Miss Steele's favorite. Make a note of it."

"Certainly, Mr. Grey."

I take the bag and stroll back down the hall, flipping my room key between two of my fingers. I hesitate at the door. What if she's awake?

I knock briskly, just in case she is. I don't want to just walk in on her. There's no answer, and so I let myself in.

Upon entering, I find that she is, in fact, awake, sitting up in bed. Her hair is an absolute haystack, but somehow Ana makes it look sexy. Her t-shirt is crumpled, and between the sheet pooled in her lap and her top, I can see a strip of pale, creamy skin. The sight makes my insides hum.

I watch her take a deep breath and close her eyes. Her head must be pounding.

I force myself to speak. "Good morning, Anastasia. How are you feeling?"

"Better than I deserve," she answers. Her eyes follow me as I move to place the shopping bag on a nearby chair.

I can't take my eyes off of her. So many emotions flood my veins at the sight of her. Relief, awe, concern, anger, lust… A whole fuckload of lust. As she watches me, I'm terrified those piercing blue eyes will read my thoughts, that she'll see right through me.

"How did I get here?" she finally asks. She's quiet, ashamed.

I go to her and sit on the edge of the mattress. "After you passed out, I didn't want to risk the leather upholstery in my car taking you all the way to your apartment. So I brought you here." My answer is partly honest. Mostly I just didn't want to let her out of my sight.

"Did you put me to bed?" she inquires, her voice still soft and small. She knots her fingers in her lap.

"Yes."

"Did I throw up again?" She's nearly inaudible now.

"No."

"Did you undress me?" she's breathing now.

"Yes," I say, waiting for the blush.

Her face floods. _There it is._

"We didn't…?" God bless her, she's too ashamed even to look at me.

Humor quirks my lips into a smirk. "Anastasia, you were comatose. Necrophilia is not my thing. I like my women sentient and receptive." If that doesn't answer her 'gay' question, well… I know some other ways I could show her. Images of her in various positions in my playroom flood my mind. I blink them away.

"I'm so sorry."

And she's apologizing again. I smirk at her.

"It was a very… diverting evening. Not one that I'll forget in awhile," I say, completely honest. I can't help but find humor in the whole situation. This woman is so unexpected. Here I find myself thinking I'm beginning to get to know her, and she goes out and drinks herself silly.

"You didn't have to track me down with whatever James Bond gadgetry you're developing for the highest bidder." And now she's snapping at me.

I can't help but feel a little offended. I damn well saved her from fucking sexual assault!

"First," I start in defense, "the technology to track cell phones is available over the internet. Second, my company does not invest or manufacture any kind of surveillance devices. And third," and possibly most importantly, "if I hadn't come to get you, you'd probably be waking up in the photographer's bed, and from what I can remember, you weren't overly enthused about him pressing his suit." By the time I finish, I'm snapping right back at her.

I realize I'm glaring at her. Her eyes lift to mine. I watch as amusement floods her face. She tries to suppress it by biting her lip—fuck me—but giggles instead.

"Which medieval chronicle did you escape from?" she snickers, "You sound like a courtly knight."

I can't help but find amusement in her question. Medieval… She hasn't seen medieval. Just wait until she sees my playroom. I can't help but smirk at the thought. And then, almost as suddenly, my mood falls.

"Anastasia, I don't think so. Dark knight, maybe." I shake my head. Here I am, sitting in front of such an innocent, lovely woman; and then here's me. Fifty shades of fucked-up… Suddenly, a thought occurs. "Did you eat last night?" I demand.

She shakes her head.

Fuck. Anger lifts my pulse rate. I don't know why, but it drives me fucking insane when people don't eat. There are so many people in the world who would kill just to pick through someone's trash, and here she is, willingly starving herself.

"You need to eat. That's why you were so ill. Honestly, it's drinking rule number one." I scrape my fingers through my hair, attempting to reign in my temper.

"Are you going to continue to scold me?" she asks.

"Is that what I'm doing?" _If you think this is scolding… you're in for a surprise, Anastasia…_

"I think so," she says.

"You're lucky I'm just scolding you."

"What do you mean?" she inquires, clearly confused.

"Well, if you were mine, you wouldn't be able to sit down for a week after the stunt you pulled yesterday." The words run freely and honestly from me, the transparency fuelled by my anger, "You didn't eat, you got drunk, you put yourself at risk." I squeeze my eyes shut, alarm filling me. That fucking idiot photographer. I open my eyes, her face filling my vision. "I hate to think what could have happened to you."

She frowns at me, that pucker between her eyebrows appearing again. Like I did last night, I wish to smooth it with my fingers, but I doubt that would go over well this morning…

After a moment, her cheeks go pink. "I would have been fine. I was with Kate," she retorts.

"And the photographer?" I bark at her.

"Jose just got out of line," she dismisses. She has the nerve to shrug.

I am absolutely fucking appalled. She was nearly sexually assaulted, and she's just brushing it off!

"Well, the next time he gets out of line, maybe someone should teach him some manners." Someone, meaning me.

"You are quite the disciplinarian." Her voice is full of acid.

"Oh, Anastasia, you have no idea." I grin at her, imagining her across my lap. I would so love to spank her right now, especially after the way she's spoken to me this morning. "I'm going to have a shower." A cold one. "Unless you'd like to shower first?" I tilt my head to the side, suddenly amused by this coincidence. I've never had to offer the shower to someone first. I'm used to having anything and everything at my complete and utter liberty.

She seems entranced, and I wonder if it's because she's thinking about me in the shower. The thought makes me grin wider. Her face starts to flush, and I can tell she's holding her breath.

I can't help it—I lean forward and brush my thumb down her cheek, over that beautiful, warm flush in her skin—oh, how I'd love to see that same gorgeous blush on other parts of her body—and across her lower lip. So fucking soft…

"Breathe, Anastasia," I urge. I force myself to stand, knowing that if I let this go on too long, I'll end up kissing her, and then fucking her. And that would not be okay. Not without her permission first. "Breakfast will be here in fifteen minutes. You must be famished." I turn and head into the bathroom to start the shower.

.

When I emerge, Ana's out of bed. I have to make a conscious effort not to ogle her naked legs.

Christ, so shapely and long, and that ass…

Clearly, she's been on the hunt for something.

"If you're looking for your jeans, I've sent them to the laundry." I assume this is what she's searching for. I force myself to stare at her face, forcing down the lust that rears inside me like a monster. Fuck me. What is it with this woman? Usually, my hormones are more easily tamed. "They were spattered with your vomit."

"Oh," she says, and her face heats.

"I sent Taylor out for another pair and some shoes. They're in the bag on the chair.

She blinks, seemingly taken aback. "Um…" she finally says, "I'll take a shower. Thanks." She plucks the bag off the chair and scurries past me, into the bathroom.

I grin, beyond amused. She's so skittish, so… pink, so… cute. Cute?

I busy myself by dressing, keeping it casual. A white shirt, grey pants.

I release my Blackberry from its charging cable and type a quick text message to Elliot.

.

_Please tell Kate that Ana is safe. She's spent the night with me._

_I assume you've spent the night with Miss Kavanagh._

_._

As I'm slipping my phone into my pocket, there's a knock on the door.

"Room service," someone calls through the door.

I let him in and he rolls a trolley into the room, packed full of breakfast items from the menu.

"Where would you like it, sir?" he asks.

"On the table," I tell him, distracted. I'm scrolling through my emails. There's one from Ros, requesting I call her. I'll make the call after breakfast. I'm starving.

Once the boy leaves the room, I move back through the bedroom and up to the bathroom door. I knock efficiently and call through that breakfast has arrived.

I seem to have startled her. "O-okay!" she stammers.

I go back to the table and pick up the newspaper, skimming through the business section. I'll wait for Ana before I eat.

A couple minutes later, I hear the bathroom door open, and then her rummaging around the bedroom.

"Crap, Kate." The fact that she's spoken informs me she's entered the front room, and I glance up at her. She's wearing the new jeans and Converse, and a pale blue shirt that looks lovely with her complexion. Her is still damp. She looks refreshed.

"She knows you're here and still alive. I texted Elliot," I assure her.

She just stares.

"Sit," I say, gesturing to the chair across from me. Obediently she crosses toward me and sits in exactly the place I've offered. I like when she obeys me. I watch her take in the selection on the table, a little wide-eyed. "I didn't know what you liked, so I ordered a selection from the breakfast menu." I grin at her, a little embarrassed if I have to be honest. If I'd known what she liked, I would have ordered just that.

I make a mental note to pay attention to what she chooses.

"That's very profligate of you," she says quietly, eyes still on all the food.

"Yes, it is." I am confused by how guilty I feel.

I begin to eat the egg white omelet I've ordered for myself, watching out of the corner of my eye as she selects a plate of pancakes, maple syrup, eggs and bacon. A very classic breakfast choice. For some reason this amuses me, and I find myself needing to hide my grin.

"Tea?" I offer.

"Yes, please."

I slide a teapot filled with hot water and a saucer with the tea bag on top across to her.

"Your hair is very damp," I say, unable to hide my dissatisfaction. She could catch a cold if she goes outside like this.

"I couldn't find the hair dryer," she mumbles.

I feel my mouth press into a hard line as I attempt to reign in my temper. If she just would have looked, she would have seen it in the first drawer she opened.

"Thank you for the clothes," she adds.

My mood thaws a bit. "It's a pleasure, Anastasia," I tell her honestly, "That color suits you."

Her cheeks fill with blood, and her gaze immediately drops to her fingers.

"You know, you really should learn to take a compliment."

"I should give you some money for these clothes," she says.

What the fuck? No, she shouldn't. What, does she think I can't afford it? Her words strike a chord with me, and immediately I feel offended.

"You've already given me the books, which, of course, I can't accept," she rushes on when she sees the way I'm looking at her, "But these clothes… please let me pay you back."

No way in fuck will I let her pay me back.

"Anastasia, trust me, I can afford it," I say dryly.

"That's not the point," she pushes, "Why should you buy these for me?"

I fail to see her turmoil. "Because I can." I think of all the other things I can do for her, if she lets me.

"Just because you can doesn't mean that you should." God, this woman will just not let the point go. The irony in her words amuses me. Just because I can, doesn't mean I should? I suppose she's right, but I enjoy what I do; and I think I'd enjoy what I do more, with her.

Again, images of her—naked, strapped, gagged and moaning my name—fill my head.

"Why did you send me the books, Christian?" She asks quietly, but it's enough to break my fantasy off cold.

Fucking hell, Anastasia. Let it go.

I put my knife and fork down, staring at her.

"Well," I say, "When you were nearly run over by a cyclist—and I was holding you and you were looking up at me—all 'kiss me, kiss me, Christian'—I felt like I owed you an apology and a warning." Fuck, while I'm being so honest, I may as well continue. I rake my hand through my hair and continue: "Anastasia, I'm not a hearts and flowers kind of man…" As much as it pains me to say these words, I push forward. I know this is what she needs to hear. "I don't do romance. My tastes are very singular. You should steer clear of me."

I squeeze my eyes shut. Why does it hurt so much to say this? To imagine her standing and leaving, never to be seen again?

Christ, I hope she doesn't listen to me. And I can't help but turn it all around and say what I'm really feeling. Because the truth is, I want this girl. I want to share my world with her.

"There's something about you, though, and I'm finding it impossible to stay away. But I think you've figured that out already."

"Then don't," she whispers.

I gasp. "You don't know what you're saying." She knows nothing about what I want to do with her. She needs to know.

"Enlighten me, then," she says.

She needs to know. Should I tell her, here, now?

"You're not celibate, then?"

"No, Anastasia, I'm not celibate," I answer, amused.

I watch her face turn red, the flush of blood against her skin, rushing down her throat, flooding her chest, disappearing underneath the collar of her shirt.

I'm going to tell her. I'm going to bring her into my world. I've decided. But we need time, she needs time to process it all. And if I'm honest, I don't want her to leave my side. Right now, I want to pack up, take her home to my apartment, and show her my playroom. Fuck, the paperwork. We need to go over the paperwork first.

"What are your plans for the next few days?" I ask her.

"I'm working today, from midday." Fuck. "What time is it?" She's suddenly panicky.

"It's just after ten," I reassure her, "You've plenty of time. What about tomorrow?" I rest my elbows on the table, my chin on my steepled fingers, gazing at her intently.

"Kate and I are going to start packing," she tells me, "We're moving to Seattle next weekend, and I'm working at Clayton's all this week."

Moving to Seattle? I didn't know that.

"You have a place in Seattle already?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Where?" Anywhere closeby?

"I can't remember the address," she says, "It's in the Pike Market District."

Right around the corner! The thought excites me. "Not far from me," I grin. "So what are you going to do for work in Seattle?"

Shit, why does this feel so much like an interview? I suppose she will, all my hopes realized, become my submissive, so I'll need to ask these questions anyway…

"I've applied for some internships. I'm waiting to hear," she answers.

I haven't had any internship applications come in recently, as far as I know. "Have you applied to my company as I suggested?"

Her cheeks pink. "Um… no."

I can't help but feel a twinge of defensiveness. "And what's wrong with my company?"

"Your company or your _company_?" Oh, she's making fun of me. She smirks at me, and the expression is so… defiant. It's hot.

"Are you smirking at me, Miss Steele?" The idea is amusing, and I can't deny that it turns me on at the same time. How I would love to spank that sweet, tight ass of hers.

She flushes, as if she can read my thoughts, and diverts her gaze, biting down on that full, sexy bottom lip.

_I'd like to bite that lip_.

She gasps, releasing her lip in an instant, and I realize I've said the words out loud. Shit. But… it looks like she's quite affected by the words, maybe even turned on. I surmise this by the way her breathing spikes, audible across the table, and she squirms in her seat.

I am surprised when she meets my gaze, those powder blue eyes clouding with challenge and lust. "Why don't you?"

"Because," I tell her, and partly reminding myself, because I would love nothing more than to pull her out of her seat and kiss her, hard, "I'm not going to touch you, Anastasia—not until I have your written consent to do so." I smirk at her. Ha, what will she think about that?

It's strangely liberating, being so open with her. Though I know she has no idea what I'm talking about.

"What does that mean?" she asks, voicing my thoughts.

"Exactly what I say." I sigh and shake my head. I feel playful, yet extremely exacerbated at the same time. "I need to show you, Anastasia. What time do you finish work this evening?"

"About eight."

"Well, we could go to Seattle this evening, or next Saturday"—can I wait that long?—"for dinner at my place, and I'll acquaint you with the facts then. The choice is yours."

"Why can't you tell me now?" she asks.

"Because I'm enjoying my breakfast and your company. Once you're enlightened, you probably won't want to see me again." A cloud of depression and desperation drop over me as I finish my sentence. Please say yes, Anastasia. Come into my dark world.

"Tonight."

_Yes_.

I raise an eyebrow. Is she sure? "Like Eve, you're so quick to eat from the tree of knowledge." So innocent, so curious. I imagine she knows the nature of sex. She's too gorgeous to be a virgin, but I'm willing to bet she's never done something like this before.

A thrall of excitement shivers up my spine. I'll be the one to open her eyes to it.

"Are you smirking at me?" Ana asks, too sweetly. Oh, such attitude. I narrow my eyes at her. We'll have to do something about that smart mouth… Or with it. Hmm.

I speed dial Taylor. He answers on the first ring.

"Taylor, I'm going to need _Charlie Tango_."

"Certainly, sir. From where will you be flying?"

"From Portland, at, say, twenty thirty."

"Yes, sir. Would you like me to travel back once you've landed?"

"No, standby at Escala," I say. If all goes badly, I can get Anastasia home in a flash. The thought deflates me. Please don't say no, please don't say no…

"Until what time, sir?"

"All night."

"All night, sir? Shall I keep her on call?"

"Yes, on call tomorrow morning. I'll pilot from Portland to Seattle."

"Certainly."

"Standby pilot from twenty-two thirty." I confirm, and hang up.

"Do people always do what you ask?" Ana asks me.

"Usually, if they want to keep their jobs."

"And if they don't work for you?" _Someone like you, Miss Steele?_

"Oh, I can be very persuasive, Anastasia. You should finish your breakfast. And then I'll drop you off at home. I'll pick you up at Clayton's at eight when you finish. We'll fly up to Seattle."

She blinks at me. "Fly?"

"Yes. I have a helicopter."

Her mouth drops open, obviously in shock. "We'll go by helicopter to Seattle?"

"Yes." Clearly, she's not used to this kind of treatment.

"Why?"

I grin. "Because I can. Finish your breakfast."

She stares at her plate and squirms. She's not eating.

My playful mood dissipates. "Eat," I snap, "Anastasia, I have an issue with wasted food. Eat."

"I can't eat all this," she whines, gaping at all the other food on the table.

I roll my eyes. "Eat what's on your plate. If you'd eaten properly yesterday, you wouldn't be here, and I wouldn't be declaring my hand so soon."

She frowns, but begins to eat again.

Good girl.

She smiles at something.

"What's so funny?" I find myself demanding.

She shakes her head, her eyes on her food. She swallows the last bite and peeks up at me.

"Good girl. I'll take you home when you've dried your hair. I don't want you getting ill." Because if she falls ill, I won't be able to fuck her.

She stands and heads back to the bedroom, I'm sure in search of the hairdryer.

She stops halfway there and turns back to me. "Where did you sleep last night?"

Her question catches me off guard. Shit. Was I not supposed to sleep with her? I feel a boyish sense of shame, but I keep my gaze impassive.

"In my bed."

"Oh."

"Yes, it was quite a novelty for me, too." I smile at her. It was… nice.

"Not having… sex." She flushes, saying the word.

"No," I say, shaking my head. And besides, I don't 'have sex'. I fuck. Hard. "Sleeping with someone." I pick up my newspaper and scan another few articles. As a CEO, it's my responsibility to keep up to date with what's going on in the business world.

As Anastasia does her thing in the bedroom, I decide to phone Ros. She wants to talk about the newest software model.

"Ros," she answers on the second ring, her tone efficient and clear. Ros is a notorious smoker, so her voice always has a rough edge. I kind of like it, though I don't condone her awful habit.

"Ros, it's Grey. You wanted to talk to me about something?"

Ana enters the room, and I watch as she ties her hair back with an elastic, crossing to the table to sit.

"Yes. The Taiwanese would like two models of the GH789 system."

I turn my attention back to Ros. "They want two?"

"Yes."

"How much will that cost?"

"The numbers aren't final yet, but we're thinking somewhere around $55,000."

"Okay, and what safety measures do we have in place?"

"One crew on flight, one waiting on the ground. We'll take the usual measures, sir."

"And they'll go via Suez?"

"That's the plan, sir."

"How safe is Ben Sudan?"

"Relatively so, sir," she tells me, confidence in her tone. One of the things I like about Ros is that she isn't nearly as intimidated by me as so many others are.

"And when do they arrive in Darfur?"

"Estimating as early as mid-week next week."

I purse my lips, thinking for a moment. "Okay," I decide, "let's do it. Keep me abreast of the progress."

"Of course."

I hang up, lifting my gaze to Ana again.

"Ready to go?" I say to her.

She nods.


	5. Chapter 5

_Saturday, May 21, 2011_

We walk down the hall toward the elevators, not talking. I'm distracted by the thought of tonight. How will I breech it all? How will she take it? Lord, I hope I get to fuck her tonight.

I press the call button, and we have to wait for it. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her glance up at me, and I sneak a glance at her. She smiles shyly at me, and I can't repress my own grin.

The bell chimes as the elevator reaches us, and we step inside. We're alone in the elevator and as the doors slide shut, all the emotions, all the sensation, all the hormones I've been trying to repress swell up inside me.

My head is filled with the sight of her in my bed, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, those legs, that rumpled mess of hair…

I turn my head slightly toward her. Is she as overwhelmed right now as I am?

Her teeth close down on her bottom lip.

_Fuck. Me._

"Oh, fuck the paperwork," I snarl. I lurch toward her, pinning her against the wall of the elevator with my hips. I capture both of her hands in one and jerk them above her head. There's no way of knowing how she'll react to my advances, but if she's going to touch me, I don't want to chance it. With my other hand, I grip her ponytail and yank so that her face tilts up to mine.

And then I crush my mouth to hers, feeling the softness, the fullness of her lips against mine.

She moans, and instantly, I'm rock hard at the sound.

I take the opportunity to shove my tongue into her open mouth, dominating her immediately. She seems hesitant at first, her tongue stroking mine in soft, gentle strokes, but then she's kissing me back just as vigorously.

Holy fuck, she's hot.

She tastes of maple syrup and sweet mint—did she brush her teeth? She tastes amazing.

"You are so sweet," I groan against her mouth.

Suddenly, the elevator slows to a stop, the doors slide open, and I push away from her. Three businessmen enter, smirking at the both of us.

I fight to tame the chaotic drumbeat in my chest. My lungs ache for air, and as Ana glances up at me, panting for breath, clearly very frazzled—her face is the most beautiful shade of pink—I ease a breath slowly through my lips.

Breathe…

On the next floor, the businessmen exit, and we are alone again.

"You've brushed your teeth," I say once we're moving again.

"I used your toothbrush," she admits, gazing up at me through those long lashes.

I can't help but find amusement in her admission. That's… Well, that's kind of hot. "Oh, Anastasia Steele, what am I going to do with you?" So many possibilities…

We arrive on the first floor, and I take her hand as we exit into the lobby. "What is it about elevators?" I muse to myself as we head toward the doors.

.

I hold the door open for Ana, and let her into the Audi.

As I round the hood to the driver's seat, I send a quick text to Andrea, requesting she email me a copy of the NDA. The cat may be out of the bag now. I don't want to risk her telling anything to anyone. I've already given too much information away, and now I've kissed her. You never know with girls, and no immediate red flags go up in my head about Ana. I don't _think_ she'd talk to anyone, but then there's Kate, and you can just never be too safe.

_Nothing more, Grey. Not until she signs the NDA_, I scold myself.

I buckle in and start the engine, aware that Ana is watching me. I back out of the parking space and switch on the music.

Immediately we're surrounded by the sweet, happy sound of Lakme's 'The Flower Duet'.

We drive in silence for a couple moments.

"What are we listening to?" Ana finally asks. To my delight, she seems to be entranced by the song.

"It's 'The Flower Duet' by Delibes, from the opera _Lakme_," I tell her. "Do you like it?"

"Christian, it's wonderful," she enthuses, and I smile. There aren't too many people these days who share an interest in such wonderful music.

"It is, isn't it?" I grin at the commonality, glancing at her swiftly.

The song comes to an end and she asks to hear it again.

"Of course," I tell her, and press the repeat button.

"You like classical music?" she asks me.

"My taste is eclectic, Anastasia," I confess, "Everything from Thomas Talis to the Kings of Leon. It depends on my mood. You?" I'm curious to know her tastes in music. She obviously is a fan of classical, but I wonder about other aspects of her taste.

Her taste… I think back to our tryst in the elevator. Fucking hell, she's delicious.

I've never encountered a woman I could just not resist before. I'm so used to being in control of every aspect of my life, including my body. It's disconcerting to feel this way, to feel so out of control with this woman. Part of me likes it. I feel… liberated.

"Me, too," she says, bringing me back, "Though I don't know who Thomas Talis is."

I glance at her again. She doesn't know who Thomas Talis is?! Where has she been?

"I'll play it for you sometime," I promise her, "He's a sixteenth-century British composer. Tudor, church, choral music." I grin at her, the irony is not lost on me. If only she knew my lifestyle, then she would find it funny, too. "Sounds very esoteric, I know, but it's also magical."

I press the shuffle button, and Kings of Leon's 'Sex on Fire' starts to play. Hmm… How appropriate.

I'm just getting lost in the thought of how 'on fire' Miss Ana Steele may be in my playroom when my phone starts to ring, interrupting the chorus.

"Grey," I snap in greeting.

"Mr. Grey, it's Welch here. I have the information you require."

_That must be the photographer's police check. _I called Welch for it last night. If there's any possibility this boy may be a danger to Miss Steele, there is no way I'm not taking steps to prevent it. She's as good as mine, now, after our conversation at breakfast this morning, and the promise of tonight.

"Good. Email it to me," I say to Welch, "Anything to add?"

"No, sir."

I hang up, and the song flares back into the chorus.

_Ohh yeah, your sex is on fire!_ I sing in my head. Singing. In my head. How strange.

I receive another call, slightly annoyed at the interruption, but then, this is the life of a CEO.

I press the 'answer' button.

"Grey."

"The NDA has been emailed to you, Mr. Grey." It's Andrea.

"Good. That's all, Andrea."

"Good day, sir."

I jab the 'end' button. The song plays barely two beats when I receive another call. Okay, so it's a little more busy than usual this morning.

"Grey," I answer.

"Hi, Christian, d'you get laid?"

I roll my eyes. What an animal my brother can be. But, then, I suppose I could be too, more-so. "Hello, Elliot. I'm on speaker phone, and I'm not alone in the car," I sigh. I doubt this information will make much of a difference in what he chooses to indulge me in.

"Who's with you?" he inquires.

I roll my eyes again, knowing how far he'll take this. You give Elliot an inch, he takes a mile. "Anastasia Steele."

"Hi, Ana!" he calls to her.

"Hello, Elliot," she answers.

"Heard a lot about you." His tone sounds low, husky, and I frown. Fuck Elliot. Why would he get to know more about Ana than I do? He's not the one fucking her.

_Neither are you_, my subconscious snaps at me.

"Don't believe a word Kate says," Ana begs him.

Elliot laughs.

"I'm dropping Anastasia off now," I say, interrupting their little conversation. "Shall I pick you up?"

"Sure."

"See you shortly." I hang up, and the music is back on.

_Soft lips are open, them knuckles are pale…_

"Why do you insist on calling me Anastasia?" she asks me after a moment.

"Because it's your name," I say matter-of-factly. Isn't it?

"I prefer Ana."

Oh. This is news to me. "Do you now?" But I like her full name better. The way it rolls around in my mouth, on my tongue… "Anastasia," I muse aloud. "What happened in the elevator—it won't happen again. Well, not unless it's premeditated." And I would enjoy planning something like that in advance again…

I pull up outside her duplex, drifting up alongside the curb. Her neighborhood is quaint and quiet. Safe enough. The duplexes are newer, not completely modern, but they're not going to fall apart anytime soon either.

I pop open my door and climb out, going around to open hers. I watch her flush at something, and I desperately wish I knew what she was thinking about.

She surprises me by telling me as she climbs out onto the curb beside me: "I liked what happened in the elevator."

I gasp. So she can be tenacious, too. What a smart, smart mouth Miss Steele has. Her words spark in my groin. I'm not used to a woman who is so free with her speech.

I follow Ana up the path to the door. She unlocks it and steps inside.

Kate and Elliot are sitting at their dining table—second hand, I know. It's got a few scratches here and there.

I follow Ana into the living room.

"Hi, Ana," Kate says, leaping up to hug her. I watch her hold her at arms length for a moment, examining her. She frowns, and then turns it on me, as if I am to blame. Possibly, I am.

"Good morning, Christian." I note the undertone of acridity in her tone.

"Miss Kavanagh," I return.

"Christian, her name is Kate," Elliot interjects.

"Kate," I correct myself and nod at her, and then I turn to glare at Elliot, who envelopes Ana in a bear hug.

_Get your fucking paws off my girl._

"Hi, Ana," he greets her.

"Hi, Elliot." She smiles at him and, fucking hell, she _bites her lip_!

Jealously flares in my chest. Is she coming on to him? Does she want him instead of me? Fuck Elliot and his boyish, charming ways.

"Elliot, we'd better go," I tell my brother. _Just get him out of here._

"Sure," he says easily. He turns back to Kate and sweeps her up into a totally over-the-top, passionate kiss.

I stare at Ana, curious about her reaction. She looks embarrassed, and I smirk.

When the two are finished and break apart, Elliot grins at her. "Laters, baby," he tells her; and my god, tenacious, sure-of-herself Kate nearly swoons. I have to give him credit, he has a way with the ladies. I roll my eyes and gaze down at Anastasia.

I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly dreading leaving her, though I know I'll see her again tonight. This is possibly the last time she'll see me as a normal person. But then, she doesn't know the real me. Tonight she will.

I run my thumb over her lower lip, wishing I could kiss her again. No. Not until the NDA has been signed and dated.

"Laters, baby," I murmur to her, and she laughs, blessing me with that wondrous, clear sound. "I'll pick you up at eight."

I turn and head out the front door, Elliot following behind me.

We make our way back to the Audi, and we're not even in the fucking car yet when he asks me if I fucked her.

For the first time, the term sounds… strange.

"No," I say, "I didn't fuck her."

Elliot stares at me, mouth open. "Why the fucking hell not? She's a piece!"

I suppress the urge to growl at my brother. Who the fuck is he to call my girl a piece? She's mine, all mine.

"We kissed. That was all. She was drunk out of her mind. I'm not into that."

Elliot shrugs, seemingly satisfied with my answer, and I pull away from the curb.

.

I spend a large chunk of the afternoon hiking with Elliot. The fresh air and exertion feel good. It pumps the blood through my body, an outlet for the sudden strong emotions Miss Steele brings out in me.

We're on the Aspen Trailhead, and though the brochure said it usually takes an entire day to reach the Rocking Chair Dam, we're nearly there. For a Saturday, the trail is surprisingly dead, but then, it's not very warm. And tourists like the sunshine.

"I don't know, man, she's different," Elliot says, in response to my inquiry on his night with Miss Kavanagh. "Super hot sex, but it's more than that. There's… I don't know… More."

_More_… I roll the word around in my head, mulling over the concept of it. I don't do more. I've never done more. But then, I've done more with Ana than I've ever done with anyone else. I've kissed her without an NDA in place, for fuck's sake. She's slept in my bed—with me! Christian Grey just doesn't do that kind of thing, and I find myself shaking my head at the insanity of it all.

I need to see Flynn. Or talk to Elena. Maybe she'll have some insight into all of this. I wonder if she's ever felt this way with any of her submissives.

The whole point of being a Dominant is to be in total control.

And Anastasia Steele makes me feel so _out_ of control.

I want her. I want this woman more than I've ever wanted any other woman, more than any of the fifteen, more than I wanted Elena when I'd thought, naively, that I'd loved her, so many years ago. I wince, remembering the beating she'd given me for that one.

"Christian?" Elliot asks, breaking me from my daydreams, glancing over his shoulder as he pushes a branch out of the way. "Are you hearing what I'm saying?"

"Sorry, I wasn't listening," I mutter, distracted as I grip the branch he's holding aside for me. It's always been so easy for Elliot. He falls in and out of love at the drop of a hat. By this time, he's usually onto the next girl.

Miss Kavanagh is different, he tells me. Truthfully, I don't see much difference in her, comparing her to the past girls. Tall, blond, blue-eyed. But then, in that sense, neither is Ana, to me.

Appearances are one thing. What lies deeper than that is a completely other matter.

I know from experience.

.

Anastasia emerges from Clayton's a couple minutes late. She looks pleased when she sees me, and a little shy, as I climb from the back of the SUV to let her in.

I smile warmly at her. She looks… radiant, even after working an eight hour shift.

"Good evening, Miss Steele."

"Mr. Grey," she returns, nodding politely at me, and slips into the Audi.

I climb in after her as she greets Taylor and clasp her hand, squeezing it gently. This is it. This is the night that will make or break this contract, this concept. This is the night I will show her who I really am, this is the night I will possibly get to fuck the divine Miss Anastasia Steele. My entire body—but let's be honest, mostly my cock—tingles at the prospect.

"How was work?" I ask her, to distract myself.

"Very long," she says to me, and if I'm not mistaken, her voice sounds… Wanting.

"Yes, it's been a long day for me, too," I admit. I haven't stopped thinking about her all day.

"What did you do?"

"I went hiking with Elliot," I tell her, stroking the back of her hand with my thumb. I just can't get over how amazingly soft her skin is. I have to look away, out the window, to avoid her seeing how large the lust must loom in my eyes.

I can't wait until we get home…

.

Anastasia is enthralled with the helicopter, and it overjoys me to see her reacting this way. This is another first—flying a woman in my helicopter, and I wonder why I've never done it before.

But then, I'm glad she's the first.

She stares amazed, over the lights of Portland as we takeoff, and then into the darkness, she still seems taken, though a little nervous.

"Eerie, isn't it?" I say to her. I can hear her breathing through the cans, too quickly.

"How do you know you're going the right way?" she asks, clearly knowing nothing about helicopters, or piloting, period.

I am more than glad to show her. It's exciting to share my hobbies with her. "Here." I point to the compass, which tells me where I'm going. "This is an EC135 Eurocopter. One of the safest in its class. It's equipped for night flight." I grin at her. It makes it even better that she seems to like what I do. First the music, now the helicopter. Maybe we have more in common than I thought. "There's a helipad on top of the building I live in," I continue, "There's where we're heading. When you fly at night, you fly blind. You have to trust the instrumentation."

"How long will the flight be?" she inquires.

_Too long_, I want to say. "Less than hour," I tell her instead, "The wind is in our favor."

Deep inside, something is beginning to churn. Anxiety, nervousness. Everything is riding on this night. Everything. I keep telling myself that if she doesn't accept, it won't be a big deal and that I'll just move on to the next prospect. Continuous excuses keep making their way into my mind, for the way I'm so enthralled with Miss Steele. Things like, I've gone too long without a submissive, without fucking.

I tell myself that if this doesn't work out, I'll go about my usual route, and find another woman.

But something in my gut always interrupts me. I remind myself of this past week, and how I've been finding it impossible to stay away from her, to lay rest to this whole thing—which is what I _should_ be doing.

She's not going to be into this.

The likes of Paul Clayton are better suited for her, not me, not this fuck up.

But what if she is…? And _that_ is what keeps me coming back for more. If she is, well, we could have a lot of fun.

I glance over at her now, and she seems distracted. Her face is flushed a delectable shade of pink, and she's squirming under the harness I've strapped her into, though she can barely move. She swallows hard.

"You okay, Anastasia?"

"Yes," she answers shortly.

I grin, knowing she's thinking of what I have in store for her. Oh, there are so many possibilities… _What shall I do to you, Miss Steele?_

Once she's signed the paperwork, of course.

I concentrate on the task at hand. I exchange the usual with the tower, coming in on Seattle.

I point toward the small pin-prick of light the city bears. "Look, over there," I say to Anastasia, "That's Seattle."

"Do you always impress women this way? 'Come and fly in my helicopter'?" she asks me now, and the imitation she's bore would make me laugh, except that her question is very sobering.

"I've never brought a girl up here, Anastasia. It's another first for me. Are you impressed?"

"I'm awed, Christian."

Awed! A strange sort of pride wells up in me. She's awed with the helicopter. I am overjoyed that she is into this. I've been able to surmise by her reactions thus far, but it's an entirely different thing to hear her say it.

"Awed?"

She nods. "You're just so… competent."

"Why, thank you, Miss Steele." I am so beyond pleased.

The lights of Seattle loom larger and larger. So does my anxiety, though I try in vain to suppress it.

"Sea-Tac tower to _Charlie Tango_. Flight plan to Escala in place. Please proceed. And stand by. Over."

"This is _Charlie Tango_, understood, Sea-Tac. Standing by, over and out."

"You obviously enjoy this," I hear Anastasia say lowly.

"What?" I glance at her.

"Flying."

"It requires control and concentration," I tell her honestly, "How could I not love it? Though my favorite is soaring."

"Soaring?"

"Yes. Gliding, to the layperson. Gliders and helicopters—I fly them both."

Oh. Gliding with Ana. What a prospect. The idea makes me grin.

.

Slowly, the roar of the blades quiet.

All I can hear is Ana's panting through the headset. We sit in absolute silence for a moment.

_This is it_.

I am surprised by how overwhelmed I feel. Please say yes, Anastasia, _please say yes._ I don't know what I'll do if she doesn't say yes.

I pull off my headphones, and then reach over to pull hers off.

"We're here."

The anxiety grips my entire body now, every muscle, every sinew. I want to fuck her so badly. But she needs to know first. She needs to be… Enlightened, as she put it.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. You know that, don't you?" I ask her as I unbuckle first myself, and then her.

"I'd never do anything I didn't want to do, Christian," she tells me, and she sounds utterly sure of herself. Good.

I look at her for a long moment. She looks amazing, her eyes bright and almost wild. She wears a soft, mint colored shirt under a black jacket—different from the one she wore the other night. The black jeans she's wearing huge her slight curves and accentuate that amazing ass of hers.

I want her. Now.

I climb from the helicopter, and then turn back to help Anastasia exit.

The wind hits us once we're outside.

"Come," I shout above the racket, winding an arm around her, securing her to my side, and I guide her to the elevator. I tap the code into the keypad, and the doors open, welcoming and warm and quiet.

I tap the entrance code in, and we descend to the penthouse.

As the doors gape open, and we step into the foyer, I watch her take it all in.

I keep my home decorated much the way I decorate my office—simple, contemporary.

Mrs. Jones has replaced the flowers on the foyer table. They are fresh, their pleasant scent fills the air.

I guide Anastasia through the double doors, and into the main room.

I can't take my eyes off her face as she takes it all in. Her eyes go wide at the room. What is it? The windows—it is a spectacular view—, the decorating?

Across from the u-shaped couch, a fire burns in the fireplace. It casts a low-key, intimate setting, and I am glad I've instructed Mrs. Jones to light it.

Her eyes flit over the place—the kitchen with its dark wood countertops and white cabinets, the eating bar, the dining table, my piano in the corner… Watching her process it all is like seeing my apartment through new eyes.

"Can I take your jacket?" I ask her softly.

She shakes her head.

I take in a breath. I need a drink.

"Would you like a drink?" I offer. She seems a little shocked by my question, blinking up at me. Dazed, maybe, from the flight. "I'm going to have a glass of white wine. Would you like to join me?"

"Yes, please," she murmurs.

I take off my jacket and deposit it on the back of one of the bar stools. As I move into the kitchen, pulling down two wine glasses—checking for water spots—Ana moves over to the glass wall, overlooking the lights of Seattle. I find it hard to take my eyes off of her as I pull a bottle of Pouilly Fume from the refrigerator, perfectly chilled.

She walks back toward me as I remove the cork from the wine bottle. I glance up at her.

"Pouilly Fume okay with you?"

"I know nothing about wine, Christian. I'm sure it will be fine," she tells me, and her voice quakes a little. She must be as nervous as I am. What does she think I have in store? Surely, it's not this.

"Here." I hand her the first glass.

I watch her take a sip.

"You're very quiet," I say, watching her eyes flit about the place again. She seems very overwhelmed. "And you're not even blushing. In fact, I think this is the palest I've ever seen you, Anastasia. Are you hungry?"

She shakes her head, and irritation flicks in my chest, like a small flame. A flame that never leaves. I find myself angry a lot of the time.

"It's a very big place you have here," she says quietly, gripping her wine glass in both hands.

"Big?"

"Big," she confirms.

"It's big," I relent. I suppose, compared to her apartment. Has she ever been in a place like this before?

"Do you play?" she asks, gesturing toward the piano in the corner.

"Yes." I can't take my eyes off of her.

"Well?"

"Yes."

"Of course you do," she muses, "Is there anything you can't do well?"

"Yes… a few things." More than a few, in fact. She'd be surprised by just how inadequate I am. I take a sip of the wine, light and crisp, watching her as she turns and gazes around the living area again.

"Do you want to sit?" I ask her. I will tell her now. There's no sense in dragging this out if nothing is going to happen.

She nods, and I can't resist taking her hand, to lead her over to the couch.

She sits, and as she continues to gaze around, she smiles, humor lighting in her eyes at some thought.

Oh, how I'd love to know what she was thinking…

"What's so amusing?" I demand, taking the seat beside her. I turn toward her, resting my elbow on the back of the couch, propping my head on my hand. Goddamn, she's gorgeous. The soft light of the fireplace flickers; her creamy alabaster complexion glows in it.

"Why did you give me _Tess of the d'Ubervilles_ specifically?" she asks.

I stare at her for a moment, surprised by the question. "Well, you said you liked Thomas Hardy," I answer.

"Is that the only reason?" she pushes.

I feel my mouth form a hard line. "It seemed appropriate," I tell her, "I could hold you to some impossibly high ideal like Angel Clare or debase you completely, like Alec d'Uberville." _Oh, let me debase you, Miss Steele_…

"If there are only two choices, I'll take the debasement," she breathes, eyes fixed firmly on me. And I can't tell if it's intentional or not, but her teeth close very surely down on her bottom lip.

I can't help but gasp. What that lip biting does to me. "Anastasia, stop biting your lip, please. It's very distracting. You don't know what you're saying."

"That's why I'm here."

I frown. I suppose it is.

"Yes," I agree. "Would you excuse me for a moment?"

I rise, heading toward my office to print off the paperwork.


	6. Chapter 6

_Saturday, May 22, 2011 00:34am_

"This is a nondisclosure agreement," I say upon returning to the living room, documents in hand. I can't deny it, I'm a little ashamed, for whatever reason. "My lawyer insists on it."

I hand it to her, and she looks completely bewildered.

"If you're going for option two, debasement, you'll need to sign this." I swallow.

"And if I don't want to sign anything?" she asks, her eyes on the paper.

"Then it's Angel Clare high ideals. Well, for most of the book anyway." I gaze at her intently, strung tighter than I've ever been strung before.

"What does this agreement mean?" she asks. She's still not looking at me, though her eyes don't scan the words of the document. Is she even reading it?

"It means you cannot disclose anything about us. Anything, to anyone." I sit.

Finally she looks at me, and stares. Really stares. I see the alarm in her gaze, and maybe, finally, she's catching on to the seriousness of this all. After a moment, she seems to reign in her expression.

"Okay. I'll sign," she says.

Cautiously, I hand her a pen. I know for a fact she hasn't even scanned the document. It's very important to me that she knows exactly what she's getting herself into. This is no blasé, casual manner. "Aren't you even going to read it?"

"No."

I frown. "Anastasia, you should always read anything you sign."

"Christian," she returns, and her tone is emphatic, "what you fail to understand is that I wouldn't talk about us to anyone anyway. Even Kate." _Even Kate?_ "So it's immaterial whether I sign an agreement or not. If it means so much to you, or your lawyer… whom _you_ obviously talk to, then fine. I'll sign."

Well, then. She does have a point. "Fair point well made, Miss Steele."

She signs, both copies, and hands one back to me. I watch her fold the other and slip it into her purse. She takes a large gulp of wine. Nervous, are we?

"Does this mean you're going to make love to me tonight, Christian?"

_Holy fuck_. My jaw drops slightly, but I force composure rather quickly. She needs to come into this without any of her ideals. She needs to know exactly what I do, and how I do things.

"No, Anastasia, it doesn't. First, I don't make love. I fuck… hard. Second, there's a lot more paperwork to do. And third, you don't yet know what you're in for. You could still run for the hills." The thought sobers me. "Come, I want to show you my playroom."

The reaction I've been looking for: Her mouth drops open. She looks absolutely shocked.

"You want to play on your Xbox?" she asks.

My Xbox? I howl with laughter. She has not an earthly clue.

"No, Anastasia, no Xbox, no PlayStation. Come." I stand and offer her my hand. She takes it, and I lead her up the stairs, down the hall. We stop outside of the playroom, and a boa constrictor curls around my intestines and clenches, hard. If I were any more anxious, my hands would be shaking.

I pull the key out of my pocket, and unlock the door.

I take a deep breath.

"You can leave anytime. The helicopter is on standby to take you whenever you want to go; you can stay the night and go home in the morning. It's fine whatever you decide." But is it really? I'll never let her know. She needs to make a decision about this without any bias from me.

"Just open the damn door, Christian," she demands.

I do, and then I take a step back, so she can step inside first.

She gazes at me for a long moment, draws in a breath, and steps inside.

Shit, shit, shit.

I step into the room after her, gaze fixed firmly on her face, watching her take it all in. She gazes around the room—the dark red walls, the varnished parquet floor, the Saint Andrew's Cross affixed to the wall across from us, the iron grid on the ceiling. The paddles, the whips, the crops, the floggers by the door.

The chest of drawers that hold my sex toys.

The whipping bench across the room, the canes. The table, the couch, the bed.

Everything she looks at, I imagine her affixed to, or underneath the use of.

I'm going insane standing here, watching her look around the room, imagining her, here, naked, restrained.

_Oh fucking fuck me._

The thoughts are distracting in the least.

I watch her expression change from shock to concentration, to amusement, to awe…

Finally, she turns to look at me. She looks so inquisitive. It's beyond hot.

For someone who's never been involved in something like this, she's taking it surprisingly well.

On auto-pilot—because if I let myself think too hard, we won't be leaving the playroom clothed—I follow her further into the room. She reaches out to touch one of the floggers. The sight has me hard. I imagine her skin flushed and over-sensitized from the whip of it…

"It's called a flogger," I tell her.

She doesn't say anything, barely even seems to regard my words. Maybe she's in shock. I can't even see the fear on her face, though it has to be there, somewhere…

She moves over to the bed, running her hands down one of the posts.

"Say something," I beg. She's killing me.

"Do you do this to people or do they do it to you?" She speaks, finally, and relief floods my body.

"People?" I take a moment to consider my answer. Finally, "I do this to women who want me to."

Does she want me to do this to her? Even a little bit?

"If you have willing volunteers, why am I here?" she asks. Her voice is low and soft, and surprisingly composed.

"Because I want to do this with you, very much." I gaze at her intently. I'm laying it all out there for her. Will she take it? Will she accept it?

"Oh," she gasps, and her shock—or is it consternation?—is evident.

She strolls across the room, to the whipping bench and strokes her fingers across the leather pad. My cock twitches at the sight. Oh, how I'd love to bend her over, and—

"You're a sadist?" she asks.

"I'm a Dominant," I correct her. She's functioning, and she's asking questions, so the whole idea of this can't turn her off too much, can it?

"What does that mean?" she whispers.

Patiently, I explain, in the simplest of terms. "It means I want you to willingly surrender yourself to me, in all things."

She frowns at me. "Why would I do that?"

"To please me," I whisper, and I am strangely shy about my words. "In very simple terms, I want you to want to please me." Here. Now.

"How do I do that?"

"I have rules, and I want you to comply with them. They are for your benefit and for my pleasure. If you follow these rules to my satisfaction, I shall reward you. If you don't, I shall punish you, and you will learn."

She glances toward the canes, and as she does, I imagine her, bare, sprawled across the whipping bench, the cane coming down across her backside, leaving red, delicious streaks in its wake… _Fuck…_

"And where does all this fit in?" she asks, gesturing around the room.

I force myself to concentrate. "It's all part of the incentive package. Both reward and punishment."

"So you'll get your kicks by exerting your will over me," she assumes aloud.

Kicks? That's not what the fuck this is about. Irritation rises, but I push it down, reminding myself she has no clue about any of this. I need to be patient with her. She needs guidance, and teaching.

"It's about gaining your trust and your respect, so you'll let me exert my will over you. I will gain a great deal of pleasure, joy even, in your submission. The more you submit, the greater my joy—it's a very simple equation."

"Okay," she says, "and what do I get out of this?"

I shrug, and I almost feel… attritional. "Me."

She just stares, and suddenly I'm frustrated. I push my fingers through my hair. "You're not giving anything away, Anastasia. Let's go back downstairs where I can concentrate better. It's very distracting having you in here." I offer my hand to her, and she hesitates for just a second. A thrill of dread courses through me. I hurry to reassure her. "I'm not going to hurt you, Anastasia."

This seems to work. She takes my hand, and we exit the playroom. Relief hits me like a brick wall once we're back in the hallway.

An idea dawns. I may as well show her everything before she signs, so she'll know exactly what she's getting herself into.

"If you do this, let me show you." We turn right, and I guide her down the hall, to the very end. I open the door for her and show her the bedroom. Pale creams and whites, a blank canvas, if you will.

"This will be your room," I tell her, "You can decorate it how you like, have whatever you like in here."

"My room?" I can hear the horror in her voice. "You're expecting me to move in?"

"Not full time," I assure her, "Just, say, Friday evening through Sunday. We have to talk about all that, negotiate. If you want to do this." Does she want to do this? She hasn't told me yes or no, yet.

"I'll sleep here?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Not with you." Her tone is hesitant.

"No. I told you, I don't sleep with anyone, except you when you're stupefied with drink." The turn the conversation has taken leaves me tense, and I hear the shortness of my words.

Her lips smooth into a hard line. "Where do you sleep?"

"My room is downstairs. Come, you must be hungry."

"Weirdly, I seem to have lost my appetite." She's annoyed, defiant.

"You must eat, Anastasia," I snap, and lead her back downstairs, into the kitchen.

"I'm fully aware that this is a dark path I'm leading you down, Anastasia. Which is why I really want you to think about this. You must have some questions," I assume. I let go of her hand in the kitchen and head over to the fridge.

She doesn't say anything.

"You've signed your NDA," I remind her, "You can ask me anything you want and I'll answer."

I pull open the refrigerator door. On the shelf sits a cheese plate. I pull it out and set it on the counter. Giving her a moment to assemble her thoughts, I begin to slice a French baguette with a serrated knife. I can slice bread, and reheat things in the microwave, but that's about as far as my cooking abilities go.

"Sit," I say, gesturing to one of the bar stools.

"You mentioned paperwork," she finally says, as she takes the seat I've pointed to.

"Yes."

"What paperwork?" she inquires.

"Well," I say, "apart from the NDA, a contract saying what we will and won't do. I need to know your limitations, and you need to know mine. This is consensual, Anastasia."

"And if I don't want to do this?"

My heart skips a beat. "That's fine," I say to her, careful to keep my tone neutral. Because, really, it's not fine. Not to me. I need her to want this.

"But we won't have any sort of relationship?" she says.

"No."

"Why?" She sounds… sad.

"This is the only relationship I'm interested in." The only way I know. I think back to my conversation with Elliot this afternoon. I can't do more.

"Why?"

I shrug. "It's the way I am," I tell her simply. It's the truth.

"How did you become this way?"

"Why is anyone the way they are?" I demand, "That's kind of hard to answer. Why do some people like cheese and other people hate it? Do you like cheese? Mrs. Jones—my housekeeper—has left this for supper."

I pull a couple of plates from the cupboard and place one in front of her.

"What are your rules that I have to follow?"

"I have them written down. We'll go through them once we've eaten."

"I'm really not hungry," she whispers.

"You will eat." Shit, what is with this woman and food? "Would you like another glass of wine?"

"Yes, please."

I pour her some more, hoping the added alcohol will fuel her inspiration to eat, and round the counter to sit with her. She takes a sip of the wine.

"Help yourself to food, Anastasia," I offer. Ladies first. My eyes narrow as I watch her take the most miniscule bunch of grapes.

"Have you been like this for awhile?" she asks before I can push the matter.

"Yes." Have I ever not been like this?

"Is it easy to find women who want to do this?" she asks, curious.

"You'd be amazed," I tell her.

"Then why me?" she demands, "I really don't understand."

_Neither do I, Miss Steele._ "Anastasia, I've told you. There's something about you. I can't leave you alone." I feel myself smile, though it's humorless, "I'm like a moth to a flame." I watch her bite her lip, and I feel my gaze darken. "I want you very badly, especially now, when you're biting your lip again." I force myself to take a breath. Paperwork first… But all I want to do is bend her over and fuck her like mad… _Control yourself, Grey…_

"I think you have that cliché the wrong way around," she mutters.

"Eat," I snap. We need to eat. This will delay my wants for a short while.

"No," she tells me indignantly, "I haven't signed anything yet, so I think I'll hang on to my free will for a bit longer, if that's okay with you."

_Oh, Miss Steele. You and your smart mouth._ I feel myself smiling. "As you wish, Miss Steele."

"How many women?" she suddenly blurts.

"Fifteen," I say without blinking.

"For long periods of time?" she asks.

"Some of them, yes."

"Have you hurt anyone?"

"Yes," I admit, thinking back to Amber, and anger flares inside me at the memory. I was new, and I restrained her too tightly.

"Badly?"

"No," I assure her.

"Will you hurt me?" I see the trepidation in her eyes.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Physically, will you hurt me?"

"I will punish you when you require it, and it will be painful."

She swallows another sip of wine. She still hasn't said no.

"Have you ever been beaten?"

Damn, all of these questions. This woman beguiles me. She's so quiet, so introspective, so closed off, and then suddenly she opens up like a burst dam.

"Yes," I answer her honestly. "Let's discuss this in my study. I want to show you something." Many of her questions, I believe, can be answered by the contract. But right now, I want to show her my rules.

When we enter my office, I gesture to one of the leather chairs in front of my desk, and hand her the piece of paper I've printed off with the NDA.

"These are the rules. They may be subject to change. They form part of the contract, which you can also have. Read these rules and let's discuss."

I watch her eyes scan the page. Finally, she's reading.

After a few moments, she looks up.

"Hard limits?"

"Yes. What you won't do, what I won't do, we need to specify in our agreement." I appraise her, waiting for the next question. It feels so good, to have nothing more to hide. Now it's a matter of her making a decision.

"I'm not sure about accepting money for clothes," she says now, "It feels wrong." She shifts in her seat, clearly uncomfortable. I haven't the faintest clue why.

"I want to lavish money on you," I tell her, "Let me buy you some clothes. I may need you to accompany me to functions, and I want you well dressed." Her Walmart and Old Navy brand clothes will just not do for that sort of thing. Besides, she deserves to have nice clothes. Internally, I shake my head at the thought. What possessed me to say that? I've never taken any of my other submissives to functions before. But there's something about Miss Steele… I want to show her off. "I'm sure your salary, when you do get a job, won't cover the kind of clothes I'd like you to wear."

"I don't have to wear them when I'm not with you?" she asks.

"No." I suppose in her free time, it's up to her what she wears.

"Okay," she acquiesces. She seems satisfied with my answer. "I don't want to exercise four times a week," she continues.

"Anastasia, I need you supple, strong, and with stamina. Trust me, you need to exercise." My mind drifts, thinking of all the things she'll need strength and stamina for… Hmm.

"But surely not four times a week. How about three?"

"I want you to do four." She has no idea how exhausting this can be.

"I thought this was a negotiation?" she counters.

I purse my lips at her. She's quite the stubborn little thing. Though, she's right. "Okay, Miss Steele," I relent, "Another point well made. How about an hour on three days and one day half an hour?" I can deal with that.

"Three days, three hours." She's firm on her counter offer. "I get the impression you're going to keep me exercised when I'm here."

I grin wickedly. How right she is. "Yes, I am. Okay, agreed. Are you sure you don't want to intern at my company? You're a good negotiator." I know I've told myself not to fuck the staff, but for Miss Steele, I could make an exception. There's something thrilling about knowing she'd be available at my every beck and call.

"No, I don't think that's a good idea," she mumbles, staring down at the list of rules.

No, it's probably not.

I move on.

"So, limits. These are mine." I hand her another document.

She reads them through.

"Is there anything you'd like to add?" I inquire. This is important. I would never want to overstep any of her bounds.

I watch her, waiting for her to speak, but the longer I stare the more she looks… well, a little lost. I feel my brow furrow.

"Is there anything you won't do?"

"I don't know," she mumbles, and all of a sudden, she's very shy again.

"What do you mean you don't know?" I'm confused.

She shifts in her seat and bites her lip.

That lip…

"I've never done anything like this," she says.

_Well, obviously._ "Well," I push, "when you've had sex, was there anything that you didn't like doing?"

She turns pink. I try to imagine what she could be so embarrassed about. I thought I'd covered just about everything in my hard limits. There's nothing left to be ashamed of.

"You can tell me, Anastasia. We have to be honest with each other or this isn't going to work."

She wiggles again and stares at her fingers, all knotted together.

"Tell me," I demand. This is starting to get on my nerves. If she can't communicate with me, this won't work either.

"Well…" she begins, "I haven't had sex before, so I don't know."

_Holy motherfuck._


	7. Chapter 7

_Saturday, May 22, 00:53am_

She has never had sex. Anastasia has never had sex?

She's a fucking virgin?!

I feel all the blood drain from my face. She's a whole lot more innocent than I thought. And I've just told her… everything. I've just exposed her to… all that! For the first time in my life, I think I'm going to pass out. I feel all the blood drain from my face.

"Never?" I manage to whisper.

She only shakes her head.

"You're a virgin?" I continue to whisper. For the life of me, I can't raise the volume of my speech.

She nods again, turning even redder.

I am unbelievably angry. How could I have done this? Why didn't I ask her sooner, before I showed her all of this fucking freakshow stuff? Oh god, oh motherfucking god. Rage flares through my veins like wildfire, and suddenly I want to hit something. I want to hit _her_. Give her a real good caning.

I force myself to close my eyes and count to ten, one of the many coping skills I've learned in my many years of therapy.

When I open them again, I'm still furious.

"Why the _fuck_ didn't you tell me?" I snarl at her.

I walk away from her, and pace back, raking my hands roughly through my hair. This is… This is some fucked up shit—that's what this is.

"I don't understand why you didn't tell me!"

"The subject never came up," she says, still ashamed, still quiet, "I'm not in the habit of revealing me sexual status to everyone I meet. I mean, we hardly know each other." She peeks up at me.

"Well, you know a lot more about me now," I bark, knowing I sound angry—but shit, I'm angry as fucking hell! "I knew you were inexperienced, but a _virgin_! Hell, Ana, I just showed you…" I groan. "May God forgive me." Suddenly, I think of something. "Have you ever been kissed, apart from by me?"

"Of course I have." She seems offended by my question, but I had to know.

"And a nice young man hasn't swept you off your feet? I just don't understand," I groan, pacing again, "You're twenty-one, nearly twenty-two. You're beautiful…" I trail off, pushing my hands through my hair again. "And you're seriously discussing what I want to do, when you have no experience." I am absolutely appalled at the bravery of this woman. But still so, so confused. "How have you avoided sex?" I demand, "Tell me, please."

She simply shrugs her shoulders. "No one's really, you know…" She trails off. "Why are you so angry with me?" she whispers.

Something in my chest tugs at her softly spoken question. "I'm not angry with you," I tell her softly, "I'm angry with myself. I just assumed…" I sigh, and stare at her intently. I shake my head. This can't happen. This can't be her first sexual encounter, I won't do that to her. She needs someone who can be gentle with her, make love to her. "Do you want to go?" I ask her.

"No," she says, "not unless you want me to go."

Oh. This changes things. I'm bewildered by this woman. She's seen all of this, and she's not running screaming. Lust opens up deep inside me. _Down, boy_.

"Of course not, I like having you here." I frown as I say this, realizing that I do. And that I don't—I don't want her to go. I glance at my watch. It's nearly one in the morning. "It's late." I turn to look at her… And she's biting that fucking lip. I groan internally as the sight stirs the monster inside of me. "And you're biting your lip." _Oh, I want to fuck you. Please, let me fuck you, Miss Steele… Let me make you mine._

"Sorry," she whispers.

"Don't apologize. It's just that I want to bite it too, hard."

She gasps.

"Come," I murmur.

"What?" she breathes.

"We're going to rectify the situation right now." I hold my hand out to her.

"What do you mean?" she stammers, "What situation?"

"Your situation, Ana," I tell her, "I'm going to make love to you, now."

Saying the words, I'm not sure I can. How the fuck do you make love?

"Oh," she gasps. Her eyes are wide.

"That's if you want to, I mean. I don't want to push my luck."

"I thought you didn't make love. I thought you fucked hard," she says and swallows.

I grin at her. "I can make an exception, or maybe combine the two, we'll see. I really want to make love to you. Please, come to bed with me," Now I'm begging her, "I want our arrangement to work, but you really need to have some kind of idea what you're getting yourself into. We can start your training tonight—with the basics." The very basics of basics. "This doesn't mean I've come over all hearts and flowers," I warn her, "It's a means to an end, but one that I want, and hopefully you do, too."

I watch her face turn pink. "But I haven't done all the things you require from your list of rules," she whispers.

"Forget about the rules." Who the fuck is this, and why is he saying these things? "Forget about all those details for tonight. I want you. I've wanted you since you fell into my office, and I know you want me. You wouldn't be sitting here, calmly discussing punishment and hard limits if you didn't. Please, Ana, spend the night with me." I hold my hand out to her, begging her. Please, Ana, please say yes. This is the most honest I've ever been, probably in my whole life, but I don't give a fuck right now.

All I want is for Ana to come to bed with me. Now.

She reaches out and places her hand in mine, and I pull her to me, pressing the curves of her body to me. Oh, she feels good against me. But she'd feel even better naked. I reach up to wind her ponytail around my wrist, and I pull, ever so slightly, so her I can have access to her face. I stare down into her eyes. She gazes back, innocently, her eyes huge.

"You are one brave young woman," I breathe, "I am in awe of you."

I lower my lips to hers, kissing her gentler than I've ever kissed anyone. I suck that delectable lower lip into my mouth. "I want to bite this lip," I whisper against her mouth, and I close my teeth around her lip, ever so softly.

She moans against my mouth, and I smile, the sound resonating deep in my belly, making me hard.

"Please, Ana, let me make love to you," I beg her.

"Yes."

_Yes_. My grin widens, and I release her, keeping her hand, and I lead her to my bedroom.

I let go of her, leaving her standing at the edge of the bed so that I can remove my watch. I lay it on the chest of drawers. I remove my jacket and lay it on the nearby chair. I take my shoes and my socks off.

I turn to gaze at her, and she's staring at me.

"I assume you're not on the pill." The virgin that she is, she wouldn't need to worry about birth control unless there's something wrong with her cycles.

The shock on her face answers that question for me.

"I didn't think so," I say, and I pull open the top drawer and pull out a packet of condoms. Fuck, I hate using these things. I'll need to get her on some sort of contraceptive right away. But for tonight, the next little while, these will do.

"Be prepared," I mutter, gazing at her. "Do you want the blinds drawn?"

"I-I don't mind," she whispers, "I thought you didn't let anyone sleep in your bed."

"Who says we're going to sleep?"

"Oh," she says.

I walk to her, and I watch her as her body responds. Her cheeks flush, and her eyes darken, her pupils widen. Those beautiful lips part, and I can hear her begin to pant.

I stop in front of her, staring into her eyes.

"Let's get this jacket off, shall we?" I murmur. I push the jacket off her slim shoulders, and place it on the chair with mine. "Do you have any idea how much I want you, Ana Steele?"

Her breath hitches. Our eyes are locked, I can't tear mine from hers. There's something in them that rivets me, drills me to the spot. I want her so much.

I reach up, caressing her face.

"Do you have any idea what I'm going to do to you?" I murmur lowly, gripping her chin gently in my fingers.

I kiss her, coaxing her into response, letting it linger. On their own accord, my hands begin to undo her blouse, fingers deftly releasing the buttons, as I trail soft kisses over her beautiful face.

I peel her shirt from her skin and let it fall to the floor, then step back to enjoy the view. She's wearing a gorgeous, lacy blue bra. She looks… Heart stopping.

"Oh, Ana. You have the most beautiful skin, pale and flawless. I want to kiss every single inch of it," I breathe.

She flushes, the blush extending right down to her breasts, even her shoulders pinking. It is the most beautiful color I've ever seen.

I reach forward to undo her hair. It falls around her shoulders, swirling around her face—a dark, beautiful curtain. As it falls, so does her scent around me. Freesia and sandalwood. Sexy perfection.

"I like brunettes," I mutter, and I shove my hands in those gorgeous planes of her hair, dragging her lips back to mine, more demanding now, less gentle, coaxing her lips apart with my own, as well as my tongue. She moans, and the word makes me even harder than I already am, and I feel her tongue on mine, shy and mild.

I free one of my hands from her hair, pressing it to the small of her back, pulling her closer. I want her to feel me, I want her to know what she does to me.

She moans again at the feel of it, and it sets my blood on fire with want. Oh, yes, baby. Feel me. Feel how much I want you.

Her hands are on my arms, and then they're in my hair. She tugs, gently, and the feeling is… exquisite. I groan into her mouth and ease her toward the bed, walking her backwards until the backs of her legs hit the edge of the mattress.

I kneel in front of her, gripping her hips in my hands, and I run my tongue around her navel. Her body is so sexy, slim and tight, only slightly muscular, but it only makes her look more womanly. I nip my way from hipbone to hipbone.

"Ah…" The sound she makes blurs my focus. Fuck, she's hot.

Her hands are in my hair, pulling gently. She's breathing hotly, heavily, loudly.

I lift my eyes to hers, find them hooded and lustful, and I pop the button on her jeans and slowly ease them over her hips, her backside, running my hands down her buttocks as I go. What a mighty fine ass she has.

I lick my lips and lean forward, running my nose up the front of her panties, inhaling deeply through my nostrils. Oh, she smells so good. Musky, but amazingly sweet. I want to taste her.

"You smell so good," I whisper and I close my eyes.

I reach up and around her, to tug the bedclothes off the mattress, and then I push her down onto it.

I remove her shoes and her socks, but don't release her ankle. I run my thumbnail up her instep, and from where she's leaning up on her elbows, watching me, she gasps. Yes, baby. I bet you didn't know you could feel this in your feet… She's so responsive, and we've barely even started. I replace my thumbnail with my tongue, and then my teeth, eliciting a soft groan, and then a moan, as she falls back onto the mattress.

Softly, I chuckle. "Oh, Ana, what I could do to you."

I pull her jeans completely off, abandoning them on the floor somewhere nearby.

I take a moment to drink her in, this gorgeous woman, splayed out on my mattress, hair wild around her face, cheeks flushed the most delicious shade of pink.

"You're very beautiful, Anastasia Steele," I murmur to her, "I can't wait to be inside you… Show me how you pleasure yourself."

She frowns.

"Don't be coy, Ana, show me," I urge her.

She shakes her head at me, still frowning. "I don't know what you mean," she croaks.

So shy, Miss Steele. "How do you make yourself come? I want to see."

She shakes her head again. "I don't."

I feel my eyebrows lift in astonishment. Fuck me. She doesn't even masturbate?!

"Well, we'll have to see what we can do about that," I say. Oh, this is going to be so much fucking fun. But right now, I'd like to bury myself inside her.

I stand and undo the button on my jeans and slowly pull them down, watching her watch me, teasing her.

I lean over her, grasping an ankle in each hands, and I jerk her legs apart. I crawl up, between her legs and hover over her.

"Keep still," I tell her, and I lean down to kiss the inside of her thigh, trailing kisses up, and over the thin, gauzy material of her panties. She's warm, her panties already damp with her arousal.

_Oh, Ana…_

She wriggles underneath me, so, so responsive. I think she's going to need extensive training.

"We're going to have to work on keeping you still, baby," I tell her, planting kisses up her stomach, pausing to dip my tongue into her belly button. I kiss up her torso, between her breasts, coming to lie down beside her.

I trail my hand up from her hip, to cup her breasts, cradling it in my hand. She fills my hand like a puzzle piece.

"You fit my hand perfectly, Anastasia," I whisper to her, and slide my pointer finger into her bra cup, grazing her nipple, and I yank the material down to free her. I repeat the action with her other bra cup.

Her breasts are absolutely flawless. Her nipples are pink and luscious, pristinely proportionate to the rest of her breasts.

"Very nice," I murmur, as I watch her nipples harden under just my gaze.

I purse my lips and blow softly on her right nipple, and lift my hand to her other breast, rolling the end of her nipple with my thumb. It elongates under my touch and she groans softly.

Her fingers clasp the sheet tightly, and I lock my lips around her free nipple, tugging gently.

Her back arches slightly off the bed, and she groans again.

So responsive… so sensitive…

"Let's see if we can make you come this way, I whisper, sucking, blowing, tugging, gently. It's not long before her body begins to stiffen, her head tilting back.

"Oh, please," she begs me, and it makes me so fucking hard.

Yes, baby, feel it.

Her legs stiffen, her mouth falls open.

"Let go, baby," I urge. Gently I close my teeth around her nipple, pulling her other nipple hard with my thumb and finger and she explodes, that little spike of pain triggering her orgasm.

I kiss her deeply, swallowing her cries as she comes, her body stiffening, and then turning to jelly.

Oh, yeah, baby.

I grin down at her as she floats slowly back to earth, and she opens her eyes.

"You are very responsive," I tell her, "You're going to have to learn to control that, and it's going to be so much fun teaching you how." I press my lips to hers once more.

She's still panting, and I brush my hand down her body, slipping it past the barrier of her panties, cupping her sex. Slowly, with the pads of my fingers, I circle her clitoris and find that she's wet, extremely wet.

My breathing hitches and I let my eyes close for a second. Oh my fuck.

"You're so deliciously wet," I murmur, "God, I want you." I thrust two of my fingers inside her, into her warmth, into that wet, soft tightness, and she cries out at my advance.

I do it once more, and again.

I grind my palm gently into her clitoris, which makes her call out again.

So, so responsive, baby.

I thrust my fingers into her, against her, harder. She groans, a deep, unbelievably sexy sound.

I need to be inside her.

I sit up, tugging her panties over her hips and off, tossing them on the floor. I pull my own boxer briefs off, freeing my pressing erection.

I reach over to the side table, pluck up a condom, and push her legs farther apart. I kneel up to roll the condom over my length, and I see the look she's giving me. She looks… fearful, and yet impressed, as she gazes down at my length.

"Don't worry. You expand too," I tell her, leaning down, hands on either side of her head. I stare down into her eyes, and force myself to make sure one more time, praying to fucking Jesus that she says yes, because I don't know if I can stop myself now.

"You really want to do this?"

"Please," she breathes.

Thank God. "Pull your knees up," I order, and she does so, quickly. "I'm going to fuck you now, Miss Steele," I breathe and I position myself at her entrance. "Hard."

I ram into her. She cries out, loudly, and I stop, staring down at her.

I've done it. She is mine, completely mine, and I'm euphoric about it.

_Oh, fuck, she's so tight. I've never fucked a girl so tight_. I have to focus myself, or I'm gonna lose my shit in two seconds. I groan lowly.

"You're so tight," I pant. "You okay?"

_Oh, she feels good. So fucking good_.

She nods, eyes wide, hands on my arms.

"I'm going to move, baby," I say after a moment, still strained, but I can handle myself now.

Fucking hell, she is _so_ good. She's clenched like a vise around me, and absolutely soaked.

I pull out of her, slowly. _Oh fuck yes_. I close my eyes and groan, and slam into her again. She cries out again, wordlessly, and I still.

"More?" I whisper, everything inside me strained tight.

"Yes," she whispers.

I pull out and ram once more, stilling again. Fucking hell, it's not going to take me long. I can feel her relaxing around me, getting used to the sensation.

"Again?"

"Yes," she moans, begs.

I pull out and thrust into her again, but this time I keep moving. _Oh fuck. Oh fucking fuck, this is so good_.

I bear my weight on my elbows, settling most of my weight over her so she can't move, so that she can't touch my chest.

I go slowly at first, conscious that this may not be as pleasurable an experience for her as it is for me. When she starts moving her hips to meet mine, I decide to move faster.

She moans, and the sound is encouraging, so I pick up the pace, hammering into her, again and again. She keeps up with my pace, her hips meeting mine thrust for thrust.

_Oh, Ana…_

I grip her head between my hands and kiss her hard, thrusting my tongue into her mouth as the pleasure builds inside of me, everything tightening, the pressure building_. Oh fuck. Ohfuckohfuck_. I'm incoherent with pleasure. It's never been this good, and I wonder if it's because I'm fucking a virgin, or if it's because I'm fucking Anastasia Steele.

I feel her start to build, her body quivering, stiffening, her breasts bowing into my chest. She whimpers as the sensation builds inside her, and I shift, aiming for her sweet spot.

"Come for me, Ana," I demand, breathless, and she does, shattering to pieces around me. I feel her pulse, and the moisture grows, and she clenches around me.

_Fuck._

My orgasm rips through me and I cry out her name, quivering and shaking over her, pouring myself into the condom between us.

As the sensation fades, I press my forehead to hers, waiting for my pounding heart to calm, for the breath to come back into my lungs.

I blink my eyes open to find her staring at me. Gently, I kiss her on her forehead, and I ease myself out of her.

"Ooh," she says, cringing as I do so.

"Did I hurt you?" I command, immediately concerned. The irony is not lost on me as I say the words. I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She looks so beautiful, post-orgasm. She's flushed and relaxed.

She grins hugely. "You are asking me if you hurt me?" she asks.

"The irony is not lost on me," I say, grinning, "Seriously, are you okay?" For some reason, this is impertinent to me. I need to know if she's okay.

Beside me, she uncoils, stretches out, taking inventory, I suppose. She grins at me and bites her lip.

I want to fuck her again.

"You're biting your lip, and you haven't answered me," I tell her, frowning, trying to be serious.

She grins at me again.

"I'd like to do that again," she whispers.

Oh thank fuck. She's not hurt. I was worried I'd been too rough with her. Lust consumes me again.

"Would you now, Miss Steele?" I kiss the corner of her mouth softly. "Demanding little thing, aren't you?" I want to see that gorgeous ass. "Turn on your front."

She blinks spasmodically at me for a second, and then obeys what I've asked.

I unhook her bra, and run my hand down her back, to that glorious tight ass, admiring the flawless span of alabaster skin as I go.

"You really have the most beautiful skin," I say softly.

I push one of my legs between hers, lying half across her body. I gather the hair off her face and plant a kiss on her naked shoulder, creamy and gorgeous.

"Why are you wearing your shirt?" she asks, and I freeze.

Something wars inside me. Should I tell her straight off the bat that I don't like to be touched? But then, tonight is her first time, and I've promised myself I would make it as normal as possible for her.

I unbutton and slip out of my shirt, and then lie back down, pressing my chest against her back. Hmm, she's warm.

"So, you want me to fuck you again?" I whisper in her ear.

I trap her beneath me with my weight, so that she can't touch me.

.

**So, there it is! One of the many chapters you've all been awaiting… ;) I hope I did it justice. Keep leaving those wonderful reviews. I'm always looking for feedback. I really hope I can stay as true to the Christian EL James created, and not the one I feel I'm creating in my own head. It's hard writing for a Dominant CEO! Lol! **

** Side note: I am searching for a 'beta' of sorts. I would love to be able to collaborate with someone on how Christian's many phone calls go, and a few other things such as proofreading—I am a perfectionist in this category, so it's important you are too! **** Please message me if you're interested!**


	8. Chapter 8

_Sunday, May 22 2011 (very early morning)_

Ana, exhausted from our second round, falls into sleep rather quickly, if not instantly.

I, on the other hand, cannot, for the life of me, even close my eyes.

What the fuck is this woman doing to me? In the past few days, I've done things I've never done before. I've slept with her, without fucking her, I've kissed her without an NDA in place, I've fucked—no, made love to—no… whatever the fuck I've done, in my bed—vanilla, at least. And I've never had vanilla sex before—and now, I'm letting her sleep here. Because I can't bring myself to wake her and take her to the bed upstairs.

She looks so peaceful, and I imagine she's spent.

Oh, she's going to be sore in the morning, and the thought pleases me. She'll know I've been there—only me.

I lay awake for nearly an hour, vacillating between staring out the window and staring at Anastasia's sleeping face.

She's awakening things in me I didn't know were there. Strong feelings, and impulsions I've never acted upon before, or even thought about acting upon.

I need to see Flynn…

Finally, I pull myself out of bed and pull on a pair of pajama pants. I leave Ana sleeping in my bed, and retreat to the oasis my piano offers.

.

A gasp of air disturbs my peace.

I glance up, still playing, and find Anastasia standing in the middle of the room, wrapped in my duvet. Her cheeks are, as always it seems, flushed. She's staring at me, and the expression on her face is unfathomable. I can't begin to make sense of it.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you," she whispers, coming toward me.

I frown. "Surely, I should be saying that to you." I finish the piece and sit back, resting my hands on my knees. She doesn't move toward me, and so I stand and go to her. "You should be in bed."

"That was a beautiful piece," she says, ignoring my admonishment, "Bach?" she guesses.

"Transcription by Bach, but it's originally an oboe concerto by Alessandro Marcello," I tell her. I'm pleased by her familiarity with the music. She's more intelligent in the world of music than I formerly guessed. "Bed. You'll be exhausted in the morning."

"I woke and you weren't there," she says softly.

"I find it difficult to sleep, and I'm not used to sleeping with anyone," I tell her. I'm half telling the truth. There's no way I'm telling her the real reason—because the idea of her is keeping me up. I drape my arm around her and guide her back to my bedroom.

"How long have you been playing? You play beautifully," she inquires, on the way.

"Since I was six."

"Oh," she says, and she's quiet for a moment.

"How are you feeling?" I feel the need to ask, switching on the lamp beside the bed. Maybe two times in one night wasn't the best way to ease her into it. Part of me just needs to know.

"I'm good," she says.

In unity, our gazes fall to the bed sheets. Blood. Not very much, but enough to be noticed.

"Well," I muse out loud, "That's going to give Mrs. Jones something to think about." I turn to face her, tilting her chin up so I can see her face.

I'm not expecting it, and so it's maybe even more disconcerting, when she lifts a hand, reaching out for my chest.

_NO!_

My stomach drops six feet below ground, and pain sears, at just the idea, through my skin. I step back, out of her reach.

"Get into bed," I order, and my tone is very sharp, cruel even. "I'll come and lie down with you," I add, forcing myself to soften. It isn't her fault. She doesn't know.

She frowns as her hand recedes, drops back to her side.

To stop her from touching me again, I pull a t-shirt on, from the chest of drawers. When I turn back toward the bed, she's still standing there.

"Bed," I demand again.

She crawls onto the mattress, and I slip in beside her, turning her onto her side, away from me, and to me. This way, she won't be able to touch me.

I struggle to tame the riotous feeling inside, the galloping of my heart.

I kiss her hair, inhaling the heady scent of her—freesia, sandalwood, and sex.

"Sleep, sweet Anastasia."

A moment later, I feel her relax against me, her breathing evening out, falling into a long and slow, push and pull, pattern. I close my eyes and listen to it, pressing my hand to her chest, feeling her steady, slowed heartbeat under my palm.

_Like that_, I order my still pounding heart. _Slow. Steady_.

I shut my eyes, listening to the melody her breathing makes—almost as soothing as anything I could play on the piano.

Before I know it, I plunge into darkness next to her.

.

When I wake, Anastasia is not in bed beside me.

My bedroom is filled with light—which is strange. I don't ever sleep this late.

I feel extremely well-rested, and absolutely satiated.

As I sit up in bed, I notice the wonderful aroma coming from the kitchen. She's cooking. Holy hell, it smells good, and I realize I am starving.

I go to find Anastasia.

She's in the kitchen, and she stops me in my tracks. She's wearing the shirt I was wearing the night before—and that's it. I can tell she's not wearing anything underneath it. As she turns and struts around my kitchen—she's dancing, plugged into her iPod, and she doesn't notice me yet—I can see her nipples, and her pubic hair, through my shirt. It's… hot.

She's got her hair fixed in two pigtails. I wonder if she's getting all girled up to protect herself from the wrath of Christian… Oh, but what she doesn't know is that she may just love the wrath of me.

I take a seat at the breakfast bar, leaning against the backrest and admiring the view. She puts the bacon under the grill, cracks a few eggs into a bowl, and begins to whisk, sashaying her hips from side to side.

Okay, so she can't dance well, but I don't care. She's got a fine, fine body, and I'm enjoying watching her.

She turns and sees me, stills, and her face turns red.

_Ah, there it is. The infamous blush_.

She looks stunned for a moment, and I watch her eyes drift from my face to my chest to my hair. She's checking me out. The realization makes me smirk.

Finally, she seems to gather her wits, and she pulls the headphones out of her ears.

She can hear me now. "Good morning, Miss Steele. You're very energetic this morning."

"I-I slept well," she stammers.

"I can't imagine why," I say, trying in vain to hide my smirk. All because of me. I frown as I add, "So did I, after I came back to bed."

"Are you hungry?" she asks, still fixed to the spot.

"Very," I tell her, and though I am starving, I would like nothing more than to fuck her on the counter top, at this moment. Ana in pigtails does things to me. She looks so young, so carefree, so girlish.

"Pancakes, bacon and eggs?" she inquires.

"Sounds great." My stomach growls. It smells amazing.

"I don't know where you keep your placemats," she tells me, shrugging.

"I'll do that," I offer, standing, "You cook." _Because I sure as hell can't. _"Would you like me to put some music on so you can continue your… er… dancing?" I grin widely as she blushes again.

_Aw, shucks, Miss Steele. Don't be embarrassed._

"Please don't stop on my account," I tease her, "It's every entertaining."

Mortified, she turns her back on me and continues to beat the eggs.

I can't help but go to her, forgetting about the placemats for now, and I tug gently on one of the braids.

"I love these," I murmur in her ear, "They won't protect you."

"How would you like your eggs?" she snaps.

I grin. Oh, that smart mouth. Perhaps we could do something with that, today… Hmm.

"Thoroughly whisked and beaten," I quip.

I see her try to hide her smile.

I turn back to the task at hand, sliding open the drawer at the end and take out two placemats. I arrange them on the breakfast bar and pour two glasses of orange juice.

I stride to the counter to start the coffee, and then I remember that Anastasia doesn't drink coffee.

_I wonder if Mrs. Jones has picked up the Twining's English Breakfast tea, as I've asked her to…_

"Would you like some tea?" I ask her as she turns to glance at me. She's got the eggs in a pan now.

"Yes, please," she says, "If you have some."

I open the cupboard—ah, there it is.

As I pull it down, I see her purse her lips. "Bit of a foregone conclusion, wasn't I?"

"Are you? I'm not sure we've concluded anything yet, Miss Steele."

She doesn't say anything, only serves up breakfast. My stomach snarls at the sight. Of the food… Of her, reaching up so that the hem of my shirt rises up her backside, revealing a tasty glimpse.

She finds some maple syrup in the fridge—also something I've requested Mrs. Jones to pick up—and I wait for her by the counter.

She turns.

"Miss Steele," I say, motioning to the barstool next to me.

"Mr. Grey," she nods back at me and sits. As she does, I see her wince. Oh, she's in pain.

"Just how sore are you?" I demand as I sit down next to her.

She flushes, seeming embarrassed. "Well, to be truthful," she snaps, "I have nothing to compare this to. Did you wish to offer your commiserations?" Her tone turns sickly sweet, mocking, and I have to suppress my amusement.

_My my, Miss Steele. Such attitude._

"No. I wondered if we should continue your basic training," I tell her.

"Oh." And I see the idea of it, the wanting, the lust, rise up on her face as she stares at me.

"Eat, Anastasia," I order, and dig in.

Oh, God, this woman can cook. The food is delicious.

"This is delicious, incidentally," I tell her.

She eats a tiny forkful of omelet, seeming lost in some sort of thought, and bites down on her lip.

_Fuck._ Why does that turn me on so much?

"Stop biting your lip," I demand, "It's very distracting, and I happen to know you're not wearing anything under my shirt, which makes it even more distracting."

That small crease appears between her eyebrows as she dunks her teabag into the small pot Mrs. Jones has purchased.

"What sort of basic training did you have in mind?" she inquires now.

"Well, as you're sore, I thought you could stick to oral skills." _Mmm, yes. I'd like to fuck her mouth…_ I'd also like to taste her. She smells divine.

She swallows her tea the wrong way and chokes, coughing and spluttering as she stares at me. I pat her on the back and hand her the glass of orange juice by her plate.

"That's if you want to stay," I add.

She stares at me for a moment and then, "I'd like to stay for today. If that's okay. I have to work tomorrow."

Oh thank goodness. Why am I always so paranoid that I'm going to say the wrong thing and send her running?

"What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?" I ask.

"Nine."

"I'll get you to work by nine tomorrow," I promise her.

She frowns. _What?_ "I'll need to go home tonight," she says, "I need clean clothes."

"We can get you some here," I tell her. It's no problem, really.

She bites her lip, troubled, and I lift my hand to release it from her teeth's grip.

"What is it?" I demand. Why do I find it so frustrating that I can't know what she's thinking?

"I need to be home this evening," she pushes.

I feel my mouth form a hard line as frustration rises in me. So stubborn, but I suppose I do need to ease her into this. If you throw a frog into hot water, they'll jump right out. The key is to warm the water slowly, so they don't notice it getting hotter…

"Okay, this evening. Now eat your breakfast."

I take a few more bites, never peeling my eyes from her, as I wait for her to take a bite. She just stares at her plate, her expression blank.

"Eat, Anastasia," I can't help but snap, "You didn't eat last night."

"I'm really not hungry," she whispers.

"I would really like you to finish your breakfast," I push, trying—really fucking trying—not to lose my temper.

"What is it with you and food?" she demands to know.

"I told you. I have an issue with wasted food. Eat," I bark again. If I told her, she'd never agree to this. Why would she want to be with a man who has such a dark and fucked up past? The simple matter of the equation is that I know what it's like to be hungry, really hungry. And I never want to know that feeling again.

She must see something in my face, because she picks up her fork now and starts to eat.

Relieved that she's eating, I turn my attention back to my own plate. I finish before she does, and I watch her eat the rest of her breakfast. She takes slow, tentative bites, chewing purposefully, and I try not to lose my patience with her. At least she's eating.

Once her plate is clear, I jump up.

"You cooked, I'll clear."

"That's very democratic," she seems to congratulate me.

"Yes," I frown at the thought. I never did this for any of my other submissives when they cooked over the weekends. There's just something about Ana, though. I feel like I… owe it to her or something. "Not my usual style," I say. "After I've done this, we'll take a bath." _And continue your training._

"Oh, okay," she says. Her cell rings, and I carry the plates over to the sink, to give her some privacy.

"Hi," I hear her greet whoever it is on the other line, and I wonder if it's the photographer. She wanders away from me, toward the glass wall, and though I've promised myself I'd give her some privacy, I find myself straining to hear what she's saying to the other person.

She's too far away.

I scrub the plates in earnest, return the orange juice to the fridge, dry the plates and slip them back into their rightful place in the cupboard.

"Kate, I don't want to talk over the phone," I hear Ana say. Her voice has risen a smidgen, just enough. I glance over at her. Miss Kavanagh. And not the photographer.

"Kate, please," Ana begs. She sounds exasperated.

"I've told you I'm okay… Kate, _please_!... I'll see you this evening." She hangs up and walks back to me.

"The NDA," she says, "Does it cover everything?" She sounds hesitant and shy.

"Why?" I inquire, turning to glance at her over my shoulder, simultaneously sliding the box of tea bags back in the cupboard. Her cheeks turn pink.

"Well," her voice warbles, "I have a few questions, you know, about sex." She's avoiding my gaze, staring intently at her hands, "And I'd like to ask Kate."

"You can ask me," I tell her. There's nothing she can't ask of me. I want her to be as open with me as possible. If she has any questions about this, I want to be the one to answer them for her.

"Christian, with all due respect," she starts, and then seems to second-guess what she's about to say. "It's just about mechanics," she finally says, "I won't mention the Red Room of Pain."

I feel my eyebrows lift, half in surprise, but mostly in amusement.

"Red Room of Pain? It's mostly about pleasure, Anastasia. Believe me." I would know. I've been in there, on both sides of the coin. "Besides," I continue, and I can't hide the disgust, "your roommate is making the beast with two backs with my brother. I'd really rather you didn't." If Miss Kavanagh ever were to mention anything to Elliot about what I do… I shudder at the thought. My life would, effectively, be over.

"Does your family know about your… um, predilection?" she inquires.

"No. It's none of their business." I round the counter to stand in front of her. "What do you want to know?" I push, keeping my voice soft, running my fingers down her cheek, feeling that soft, flawless skin under my fingers. I tilt her chin up, so that I can see into her eyes. I want to know.

"Nothing specific at the moment," she breathes, caught in my stare.

"Well, we can start with: How was last night for you?" For some reason, I feel eager to know. Did I do well? Was I adequate enough for her?

"Good."

_Good. _I was good. "Me, too," I murmur softly, "I've never had vanilla sex before. There's a lot to be said for it. But then, maybe it's because it's with you." Again, I find myself thinking about things too closely. I run my thumb across her mouth. "Come. Let's have a bath." I tilt my lips down to meet hers.

I want to wash her, and after that, we'll move forward with her training…


	9. Chapter 9

_Sunday, May 22, 2011_

I run some jasmine bath oil into the hot water as it fills the tub.

Ana watches me from the doorway, arms folded protectively across her body, eyeing me warily.

The scent fills the air. There's something about jasmine, it's a sexy, sultry, soft smell, that always turns me on. It's relaxing.

I turn, fixing my eyes on her, and pull my t-shirt over my head. She still doesn't move.

"Miss Steele," I summon, holding my hand out to her. Why is she so nervous? It's just a bath…

_It's not, and you know it,_ my subconscious snaps at me.

She steps toward me, and I watch the blue of her eyes darken, just slightly, as she takes in my bare chest.

I lead her to the filling tub and help her step in, still in my shirt.

"Turn around, face me," I murmur. She does. And she's biting her lip. "I know that lip is delicious, I can attest to that. But will you stop biting it?" I have to speak through clenched teeth. She's so close to naked, and I want to fuck her again, badly. But she may not be in any shape to do so just yet. "Your chewing it makes me want to fuck you, and you're sore, okay?"

She gasps, effectively releasing her lip. There. Maybe that will work.

"Yeah. Get the picture?"

She nods, her head bobbing quickly.

"Good." I slip my hand into the breast pocket of my shirt and pull out her iPod, which she's forgotten. I put it by the sink. "Water and iPods—not a clever combination." With that out of the way, I grasp the hem of my shirt and pull it over her head, revealing her glorious naked body. I take a small step back, assessing that beautiful, creamy, flawless skin, the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, that bushel of pubic hair at the apex of her thighs… I kind of like it.

Ana knots her hands together at the base of her flat belly and gazes down. She looks… ashamed.

"Hey," I tell her softly, and she peeks at me, "Anastasia, you're a very beautiful woman, the whole package" _Amazing tits, tight ass, long legs, tiny waist_ "Don't hang your head like you're ashamed. You have nothing to be ashamed of, and it's a real joy to stand here and gaze at you." I take her chin between my fingers and tilt her head up, so that I can look into her eyes. "You can sit down now."

She lowers herself into the frothing water, wincing slightly as she sits. She leans back, closing her eyes, humming softly. She looks… so happy, so at peace, so calm.

"Why don't you join me?" she asks, when she opens her eyes and sees me just… standing there, like a loon.

"I think I will," I say, "Move forward." I pull my pants off and step in behind her, scooting down into the water, and pulling her between my legs and up against my chest. I hook my ankles over hers and pull her legs apart.

I push my nose into her hair and inhale deeply. Mmm, the smell of Ana.

"You smell so good, Anastasia," I murmur, eyes closed. This is… really nice.

She shivers, and I feel the tremor ripple through her.

I grab the bottle of body wash off the shelf by the bath and squirt some in my palm. I create a foamy lather between my hands and grip her shoulders, massaging the muscles there, which are tense.

She groans softly.

"You like that?" I ask, smiling. I like making her feel good. It makes me feel good.

"Hmm," she responds.

I wash her arms, her underarms, and then I let my hands glide over to her breasts. She gasps as I take them in my hands, massaging gently. I smirk when she pushes them eagerly into my hands, her nipples hardening instantly under my touch. _So responsive, sweet girl_…

I feel myself growing hard against the small of her back, and I trail my hands down her belly, underneath the water… I reach for a washcloth, squirting more soap into it, and hold it against the apex of her thighs, rubbing her gently through the barrier.

She's holding her breath as I rub her softly, and her hips begin grinding against me. Well, I suppose she can't be too sore, then… Maybe I can fuck her again after all…

Her head tilts back, resting on my shoulder, and her lips part. She groans, loudly, and I know she's getting closer.

"Feel it baby," I whisper in her ear, "Feel it." I graze my teeth along her right earlobe.

"Oh… please," she whispers.

Closer… just a little bit closer…

"I think you're clean enough now," I say, and I know she's right on the precipice. I stop, pulling my hand from her body.

_Lesson one: orgasm denial. _

"Why are you stopping?" she cries, out of breath.

"Because I have other plans for you, Anastasia," I murmur. I'm so hard, and I grip myself, running my hand up and down my own length. "Turn around, I need washing too."

She does, eyes instantly zeroing in on where I grasp myself. Her mouth drops open.

"I want you to become well acquainted, on first name terms if you will, with my favorite and most cherished part of my body. I'm very attached to this."

She is so… Enthralled, her eyes wide as she watches me grow. I can feel myself getting harder as she watches. Fuck, this is erotic. She's so fucking innocent, and I get all of her.

Her eyes lift to my face, and she swallows.

After a minute, she grins widely and reaches for the soap. Watching me, she lathers the soap between her palms, just as I have done. Her lips are slightly parted, and I watch as, clearly very intentionally, she captures her bottom lip between her teeth, and then runs her tongue across it.

_Oh, fucking fuck me. I want that mouth on me._

She grips me with a hand, where mine has just been. _Oh shit yes._ I let my eyes flutter shut briefly.

She squeezes me, and I lower my hand to hers, to guide her.

"Like this," I coach, and I move her hand up and down along my length, firm.

_Oh my fuck… Her hands, so soft, feel heavenly against me._

"That's right, baby."

I release her, letting her take over, and I shut my eyes as she continues to glide her hand up and down me. Reflexively, my hips push into her hand and she squeezes me tighter.

_Oh shit…_ I groan softly. _Mmm, yes, just like that, baby. You're doing so well…_

I'm just losing myself in the sensation when I feel her mouth on me, wet and hot. She sucks softly, and I feel her tongue sweep over the head of my cock.

"Whoa… Ana," I stammer, my eyes flying open, and she increases the suction.

"Christ," I groan, and I close my eyes again. _So fucking good. Wet and hot and soft._

She pushes more of my length into her mouth and swishes her tongue around the tip again.

I feel my hips flex. _Oh shit. I'm so sensitive._

I force my eyes open, watching her suck me. She is so fucking hot.

Desperately I want to take her head in my hands and fuck her mouth, have total control, trap her hands behind her back and really claim her mouth as my own, but I need to ease her into it, once again. And she's doing well. _Fuck, she's doing better than well. She's amazing._

Oh fuck. I'm getting closer, that familiar, delicious pressure building.

On their own accord, my hands grip her pigtails and my hips thrust forward and back, and I'm fucking her mouth gently.

"Oh… baby… that feels good."

In response to my words she sucks harder, flicking her tongue over the head again.

_Fuck. So sensitive._

I'm getting close…

She clamps her teeth behind her lips and really sucks, hard, pulls me further into her mouth.

_Shit… oh, fuck._

"Jesus," I hiss, "How far can you go?"

She pushes me farther, and I can feel the back of her throat—fuck. She pulls back slightly, to swirl her tongue around my tip again. She doesn't stop, repeating the same process, again and again.

_Oh, fuck. Oh, shit. I'm gonna come._

"Anastasia," I gasp, "I'm going to come in your mouth. If you don't want me to, stop now."

I'm so close, right on the edge, about to fall over the precipice, and I thrust my hips into her mouth again.

She doesn't stop, and ever so slightly, I feel her teeth graze my erection, and that's it.

I explode in her mouth, crying out wordlessly, and freezing as my orgasm rips through my body. I'm all at once full of energy, excess energy, zipping through my veins like shorted electrical wires, and then suddenly I'm jelly, weak and spent.

When I open my eyes, I find her watching me.

"Don't you have a gag reflex?" I demand. For a first timer, she sure didn't act like it. "Christ, Ana… that was… good, really good. Unexpected, though." And I frown. This is not the way things usually go. Without knowing it, she's topping from the bottom, but strangely, I don't mind too much. "You know," I tell her, "You never cease to amaze me."

She smiles and bites her lip, and I think she does it on purpose.

"Have you done that before?"

"No," she admits, but I can hear the pride in her tone. She's proud of herself.

"Good. Yet another first, Miss Steele." Jesus Christ, this woman is amazing. "Well, you get an A in oral skills. Come, let's go to bed. I owe you an orgasm." I want to taste her so bad. And holy fuck does she deserve one hell of a reward for this…

Still partially hard, I climb out of the tub and wrap a towel hastily around my waist. I hold a larger towel out for her and she rises, stepping into it. I wrap it tight around her, pinning her arms to her sides, and pull her against me so I can kiss her. I push my tongue into her mouth and I can taste myself…

As I kiss her, I'm again overwhelmed by how amazing this woman is. She's taken all of this in stride so far, shown no fear whatsoever. Oh, I need her. I need Anastasia Steele more than I've ever needed anything else in my life. I need her to agree to this.

I pull away, gripping her face in my hands. I have no idea why the need is so great, I just know that it is.

"Say yes," I beg her.

She frowns, confused. "To what?"

"Yes to our arrangement. To being mine. _Please, Ana._" I kiss her again. These feelings inside me have me in turmoil, but there's one clear thought: I need to make her mine. Now.

I tug her into the bedroom and over to the bed.

"Trust me?" I ask.

She nods, her eyes wide.

"Good girl," I whisper, brushing my thumb over that full bottom lip. I step into my closet and up to my tie rack, snatching up the first one that I see, a silver-grey silk-woven tie.

When I return, she's standing in the same spot, unmoving.

"Hold your hands together in front of you," I tell her, peeling her towel off her shoulders and tossing it on the floor nearby.

She does, and quickly I tie her wrists together. I tug to make sure it's secure.

My sweet, sweet Ana. All tied up.

Oh, what am I going to do to her?

I run my fingers down one of her pigtails. It's damp and slightly unwoven now.

"You look so young with these." I close in on her, and she steps back at my advance.

I unwrap my own towel from around my waist and let it drop to the floor, too.

"Oh, Anastasia, what shall I do to you?"

I lower her onto the bed, stretching out beside her, and I lift her hands above her head.

"Keep your hands up here, don't move them, understand?" I say to her, and I can feel the familiarity of this act rising up in me. The excitement, the arousal, the power of absolute control, all in my hands.

She just stares at me.

"Answer me.

"I won't move my hands," she says. She's panting, breathless, the swell of her breasts rising and falling rapidly.

"Good girl." I wet my lips, watching her watch me. _Oh, Ana. You look so delicious_. I plant a quick kiss on her lips. "I'm going to kiss you all over, Miss Steele," I hum in her ear, and lift a hand, cupping her chin, forcing it up so I have access to her throat. I litter small wet kisses down the column of her throat, and she groans.

We've barely even started and already her whole body's on alert.

My lips move lower, leaving soft wet imprints of my kiss on that beautiful flawless skin of hers, when I feel her hands in my hair. I freeze and gaze up at her, shaking my head in disapproval.

I reach up and position her hands above her head again.

"Don't move your hands, or we just have to start all over again," I tell her, trying to keep my tone neutral.

"I want to touch you," she pants.

"I know." _That's part of the fun._ "Keep your hands above your head."

I push her chin up and start to kiss her again. When I reach the small dip at the base of her neck, I put my hands on her body, gliding over that soft, soft skin-made even softer by the oil in the bath—past her breasts, where her nipples are already straining, hardened by my teasing. _Hmm, that's nice…_

I continue my journey south with my lips, kissing down the valley between her breasts. Her skin smells divine—a heady mix of freesia, and sandalwood, and jasmine bath oil.

I stop briefly at her breasts, to kiss and suck each nipple briefly.

Her hips begin to move, I imagine she's searching for friction.

"Keep still," I whisper against her heated skin. I really don't want to have to start this whole process over. It will take all day to get to my destination if I have to do that.

I continue south, reaching her belly button. I dip my tongue inside, and graze the skin with my teeth. She jumps, her back arching off the mattress.

I move lower, running my nose back and forth, along the line her pubic hair makes. "Hmm," I hum appreciatively, "You are so sweet, Miss Steele."

I bite her gently, and soften the harshness with my tongue.

Suddenly, I remember those legs, and I think those deserve some attention too. Plus, I also like to tease her.

I sit up, gripping an ankle in either hand and spread her legs wide, exposing her to me. I take her left foot in both my hands, bend her knee, and kiss each of her toes, then go back to the start and bite each of them in turn. When I reach her smallest toe, I bite harder and it gets the reaction I want—she writhes on the bed, whimpering softly. Oh, what that sound does to me…

I run my tongue up her instep and watch as she shuts her eyes and her head falls back.

I kiss her ankle, littering kisses up her calf, right up to her knee.

And then I repeat the same thing on her right foot.

"Oh, please," I hear her moan when I bite down on her little toe.

"All good things, Miss Steele," I whisper. _**Come**__ to those who wait…_ I smirk briefly at my own little joke.

I kiss her right ankle, up her right calf, keep going past her knee, and litter kisses up her inner thigh. Oh, those amazing thighs. I want to be cradled between those thighs.

I push her legs further apart and kiss up her other inner thigh, licking and sucking, and I'm _there. _In the promise land.

Up close, her scent is all-consuming. Fuck, she smells so good.

Very softly, I run my nose up her slit, inhaling deeply through my nostrils.

_Hmm…_

As I do so, she convulses slightly.

I stop, waiting for her to stop moving, gazing up at her. She lifts her head and looks down at me. Her lips are parted, cheeks flushed, eyes wild with lust.

"Do you know how intoxicating you smell, Miss Steele?" I ask her, and I can't help it—I push my nose into that small bunch of pubic hair and draw the scent in greedily, hungrily.

I hear her gasp quietly.

I pull back slightly, pursing my lips, and blow very gently up the length of her.

"I like this," I murmur softly, reaching up to gently pull at her pubic hair, "Maybe we'll keep this."

"Oh…" she moans, "please."

"Hmm, I like it when you beg me, Anastasia," I tell her, and I can feel my hardness stirring underneath me.

She groans in response.

"Tit for tat is not my usual style, Miss Steele," I inform her as I blow up and down her again, "but you've pleased me today, and you should be rewarded." I can't hold back my voracious grin. I so look forward to rewarding her…

I press my hands down on her thighs, holding her legs apart, and slowly, firmly, I begin to circle her clitoris with the tip of my tongue.

She moans loudly, back arching again.

_Oh, baby_.

I roll my tongue over and around her again and again, getting her lost in the sensation. Subtly, I don't think she even knows she's doing it, she grinds her hips into my mouth.

It's not long before she starts to quiver, her legs going rigid.

I slide a finger inside her and groan lowly at the feel. Hot and slick, just for me.

"Oh, baby," I say to her, "I love that you're so wet for me."

I move my finger inside her much the same way I'm rolling my tongue around her clit, in wide circles, and I can feel the give of her body around me as I stretch her.

She groans, keening quietly, and her quivering intensifies.

I know she's close.

_Don't stop now, Grey._

Suddenly, she comes, exploding around me. She cries out incoherently and as she slowly drifts down, I lean up to rip open a condom and roll it on.

Slowly, I ease myself into her, careful to be gentle, in case she's still sore.

Oh, it's just as good as it was last night. She's so tight and so wet, just for me. I thrust my hips against her very slowly as I watch her coming back down from the high her orgasm took her to.

"How's this?" I whisper.

"Fine," she sighs, "Good."

I stop holding back and really go for it, pounding into her. That sweet, sweet tension begins to build, and I can feel my impending orgasm coming. I can tell she's close too, writhing under me, moaning, her hips thrusting back at me, perfect every time, offering the perfect counterpoint.

"Come for me, baby," I demand in her ear. Shit, I'm so close. She'd better come or I'm going to do it for her.

She does, letting go around me, calling out my name, her voice wild and untamed.

"Thank fuck," I groan, and I come. That sweet, sweet letting go, uncoiling, and then the violent ricochet as I come back.

Exhausted from the intensity of it, I collapse on top of her. Somehow, she gets her arms around my neck, and though I tense slightly at it, I don't remove them. This is… okay.

After a moment, when I've regained my composure, I push myself up on my elbows so I can look at her face.

"See how good we are together? If you give yourself to me, it will be so much better. Trust me, Anastasia, I can take you places you don't even know exist."

As I run my nose down the length of hers, voices in the hall seep into my consciousness.

"But if he's still in bed, then he must be ill. He's never in be at this time. Christian never sleeps in."

"Mrs. Grey. Please."

"Taylor," the woman replies in consternation, strangely familiar, "You cannot keep me from my son."

"Mrs. Grey, he's not alone," Taylor says.

"What do you mean he's not alone?"

Slowly, clarification is dawning in my head, piecing the voices to faces…

"He has someone with him."

"Oh…"

I blink, all at once horrified and humored.

"Shit! It's my mother!" The idea hits me hard in the head, out of left field. I want Ana to meet my mom. I want to introduce her to my mom. Hell, I'd like her to meet my entire family.

In my haste, I jerk out of her quickly, pulling the condom off, knotting the end, and tossing it in the wastebasket by my bed. I leap off the bed and pull my jeans on—no time for boxers.

"Christian—" Ana stammers from the bed, "I-I can't move."

I grin at the sight of her, all tied up, dependent completely on me, staring wide-eyed and desperately at me. Quickly I go to her and undo her restraint, admiring the imprints my tie has left in her skin. Damn, that's hot.

My thoughts return to the fact that Anastasia Steele is about to meet my mother, and excitement jumps in my belly. I grin and lean down to swiftly kiss her forehead.

"Another first."


	10. Chapter 10

_Sunday, May 22, 2011_

"I have no clean clothes in here," Ana panics, scrambling to sit up on my bed. Her hair is wild, cheeks still flushed. Shit, she is drop-dead gorgeous. "Perhaps I should just stay here."

"Oh no, you don't. You can wear something of mine." There's no way she's backing out of this. I want her to meet my mother. And she's damn well going to meet my mother. I pull a white t-shirt over my head and absently run my hand through my hair. I've long since given up attempting to tame my hair, ever. It has a mind of its own. I can't be too bothered about it, really.

I gaze at her impassively. She still looks quite torn between choices.

"Anastasia," I say, "You could be wearing a sack and you'd look lovely. Please don't worry. I'd like you to meet my mother. Get dressed. I'll just go and calm her down." She still looks undecided. I need to make my expectations clear. "I will expect you in that room in five minutes; otherwise I'll come and drag you out of here myself in whatever you're wearing. My t-shirts are in this drawer," I say, gesturing, "My shirts are in the closet. Help yourself."

I gaze at her a moment longer. She had better obey me. What concerns me is that Anastasia never does what's expected. I suppose I just need to trust that she will. I turn and stride from my bedroom, shutting the door behind me.

My mother is waiting in the great room. She's distracted by something on her Blackberry, in the midst of peeling her coat off. She glances up at me when I enter the room.

"Christian!" she greets me, "How are you darling, alright?"

I sense the mirth dancing in my eyes, and I can't peel the grin off my face. "I'm well, Mother. How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she tells me, "I was just in the neighborhood."

I take a seat on the couch, throwing my arms over the back. "I see."

Curiosity sparks in her eyes as she takes a seat next to me. "Well?" she urges, "Tell me about… her."

I don't miss the fact that she stammers over the last word, and I smirk. Why the hell does everyone think I'm gay?

Ana appears in the doorway now. She's dressed in the clothes she wore last night. She's replaced her pigtails for a singular ponytail, and I have to say, she's done rather well. If I can't tell I've just fucked her, neither will my mom.

"Here she is," I announce, jumping to my feet. I can hear the pride in my voice, and I embrace it. Anastasia Steele is an amazing woman, and I'm pleased to be able to introduce her to one of the most important people in my life. My mother absolutely beams at Anastasia, and rises from the couch as well. Good God, Mother, hide your enthusiasm just a little bit, will you? "Mother, this is Anastasia Steele," I introduce, "Anastasia, this is Grace Trevelyan-Grey."

My mother extends her hand. "What a pleasure to meet you." I'm not lost on the relief I see in her gaze, and I'm wondering if it's because she sees that Anastasia is, in fact, a female, or if it's something else.

Anastasia reaches to grasp my mother's hand and shakes it, returning the smile. Shit, that smile is stunning. "Dr. Trevelyan-Grey," she murmurs formally, politely.

"Call me Grace," my mother urges, grinning hugely and I can't help but frown. Okay, that's strange. My mother's never asked anyone to call her by her first name. So often she prefers the professional address. "I am usually Dr. Trevelyan, and Mrs. Grey is my mother-in-law," she says conspiratorially, and winks. "So, how did you two meet?"

Now she's looking at me, and I take this as my cue that I am permitted to be included in the conversation again. "Anastasia interviewed me for the student paper at WSU because I'm conferring the degrees there this week," I tell her.

"So you are graduating this week?" Grace inquires of her.

"Yes," she answers, and in the kitchen, her cell phone starts to ring. "Excuse me," she mumbles, and goes to answer it.

My mother takes a breath as she turns to look at me again. "Nice girl," she murmurs, "She's gorgeous."

"She is," I agree.

"And very sweet."

_Sweet. Hmm…_ I mull over the word in my head, thinking back to this morning, when she earned her first well deserved A… She wasn't very _sweet_ then…

I gaze over at her now. She has her shoulders angled in on herself, as if she's hiding from something, or protecting herself. "Look, Jose, now's not a good time," she says, and glances up at me.

Jose. The photographer. What the fuck is he calling for?

"I heard you were in Portland this week."

"Yes," I murmur to her, eyes glued to Anastasia's face. She looks nervous. And now she turns her back to me. _Shit_. Does she not want me to hear this phone conversation? There's something about that damn photographer. There has to be something going on between them. No way in fucking hell am I letting him come between Anastasia and me.

"… and Elliot called to say you were around—I haven't seen you for two weeks, darling." I tune back into what my mother is saying, and I try to concentrate on the conversation at hand, but the rage is swarming inside me like a hornet's nest, and the fog of it is just too thick.

"Did he now?" I say, unable to tear my eyes from that gorgeous woman now back in the sitting area. _Fuck him._ Fuck him and his attempts to win her over. She's _mine._

"… other plans and I don't want to interrupt your day."

Oh. She's leaving now. Out of the corner of my eye I watch her swipe her coat off the arm of the couch and she turns to me.

I force myself to finally turn away from Anastasia, and I plant a kiss on my mother's proffered cheek. "I have to drive Anastasia back to Portland," I hear myself mutter as an excuse.

"Of course, darling." She understands, and now turns her attention to Anastasia. "Anastasia, it's been such a pleasure. I do hope we meet again." She holds her hand out once more, and Anastasia takes it immediately.

Taylor steps into the room. "Mrs. Grey?" he says. He'll escort her out.

"Thank you, Taylor."

They leave, but I only know this by sound, because my eyes are fixed on Anastasia again. The anger licks up the walls of my belly, jealousy promoting it like jet fuel.

"So the photographer called?" I demand, and I can hear the acidity in my voice.

She swallows. "Yes."

"What did he want?"

"Just to apologize," she says, "You know—for Friday."

Yes. I fucking know. "I see."

Having returned, Taylor steps back into the room. "Mr. Grey, there's an issue with the Darfur shipment."

_Fuck._ This will have to be dealt with later. I nod at Taylor, acknowledging his words. "_Charlie Tango_ back at Boeing Field?" I ask.

"Yes, sir."

Taylor turns his attention to Anastasia now. "Miss Steele," he greets her.

She offers him a small smile, and he turns to leave.

"Does he live here?" she asks me, "Taylor?"

"Yes," I snap. I can't fucking deal with this right now. I stalk over to the counter where I've left my Blackberry and scroll through the multiple emails I've received from Ros, requesting I call her when I can. I make the call.

"Ros here."

"Ros, what's the issue?"

For a minute, she seems surprised at my anger, but pushes forward anyway. "There's an issue with security at the drop-off site, sir. They're low on crew members."

"I'm not having either crew put at risk," I tell her.

"Right, sir. Should I reschedule?"

"No, cancel," I tell her, "We'll air-drop instead."

"Certainly, Mr. Grey. I'll arrange that immediately."

"Good." I hang up. Next order of business. I leave Anastasia in the great room and head into my office, where I print off the entire contract and slip it into an envelope.

"This is the contract," I tell her upon returning, "Read it, and we'll discuss it next weekend." That should give her enough time to process it all. "May I suggest you do some research, so you know what's involved," I add. "That's if you agree, and I really hope you do." Suddenly, all my anger vanishes into thin air, replaced with the squirming, daunting sensation of anxiety.

She still hasn't said yes, or even no, and I can't figure out why. But maybe, once she does a bit of research, she'll have a better inclination of which way she'll choose to go.

"Research?" she asks.

"You'll be amazed what you can find on the Internet."

She looks troubled suddenly, gnawing on that lip.

"What is it?" I demand.

"I… don't have a computer," she says, sullen, "I usually use the computers at school. I'll see if I can use Kate's laptop."

_That probably isn't such a good idea…_ I hand Anastasia the envelope and picture how Miss Kavanagh would react if she stumbled across her internet history after Anastasia was done with it. No. I'll get her a laptop of her own. That way she'll have email, and I'll be able to reach her with better ease, as well.

"I'm sure I can… er, lend you one," I say, knowing she'd never accept if I outright told her I'd purchase one for her, "Get your things, we'll drive back to Portland and grab some lunch on the way. I need to dress." Jeans and t-shirt won't do for heading out into public.

"I'll just make a call," she murmurs softly.

I feel the corners of my lips turn down. Why the hell would she need to call him back? "The photographer? I don't like to share, Miss Steele. Remember that," I warn her, and I hope that'll be enough. I turn and head back into my bedroom, in search of a better outfit.

.

Anastasia is biting her lip again, and I've just called the elevator.

"What is it, Anastasia?" I inquire. My anger has dissipated slightly, upon the realization that she'd made a call to Miss Kavanagh instead of the photographer. I overheard her conversation while I was gathering my things. I reach up to free her lip from her teeth. "Stop biting your lip, or I will fuck you in the elevator, and I don't care who gets in with us."

She blushes, and I smile at the sight.

"Christian," she indulges me, "I have a problem."

"Oh?" Perhaps there's something I can do to fix it, and I turn my full attention to her now. Before she can tell me what she's having an issue with, the bell dings, announcing the elevator's arrival. The doors gape open and we step inside. I punch the Garage button, and we begin to descend.

"Well," she continues, but is interrupted by her blush. "I need to talk to Kate." _Shit, this again._ "I've so many questions about sex, and you're too involved." _You don't know the half of it, Miss Steele. _"If you want me to do all these things—how do I know—?" She stops, and I can see she's struggling, warring over some thoughts inside her head. "I just don't have any terms of reference."

I can't help but roll my eyes. So that's what this is all about. She just needs some girl talk. I suppose I can allow it, so long as she doesn't mention anything to Elliot. I tell her this, and she seems perturbed at my words.

"She wouldn't do that," she snaps, though her tone softens quickly—she reigns in her temper so well, "and I wouldn't tell you anything she tells me about Elliot—if she were to tell me anything."

"Well, the difference is that I don't want to know about his sex life. Elliot's a nosy bastard." I joke, but really I'm serious. "But only about what we've done so far," I add. Katherine can't know about what I have in mind for Anastasia… "She'd probably have my balls if she knew what I wanted to do to you." And I'm aware I'm thinking out loud.

"Okay," she acquiesces, and she smiles at me.

I smile back at her quickly, but all that's running through my head is how different this all is. Why is it, that with her, I find it so hard to keep her under my hand? Why am I allowing her these things?

"The sooner I have your submission the better, and we can stop all this."

"Stop all what?" she asks.

"You, defying me." I sweeten the blow with a kiss as we stop on the Garage floor, and the doors slip open. I grip her hand in mine and pull her into the garage. Now I get to show her my car. I point the key fob at the Audi R8 and press 'unlock'.

"Nice car," she comments.

Exhilaration rushes through me at her approval and I grin at her. "I know."

.

"So what sort of car is this?" she asks once we're situated.

"It's an Audi R8 Spyder," I tell her and add, "It's a lovely day. We can take the top down. There's a baseball cap in there," I gesture toward the glove box with my chin, "In fact, there should be two. And sunglasses if you want them."

I start the ignition, slip my overnight bag between our seats, and press the button to retract the roof. I figure I'll just stay in Portland for the week. The graduation isn't far away. Last but not least, I turn the music on and Bruce Springsteen's 'I'm On Fire' seeps from the speakers.

"Gotta love Bruce." I grin.

Oh, it's been too long since I've driven this baby. I ease the car up the steep ramp and out into the sunshine. It's a gorgeous morning, and despite the fact that I'm returning Miss Steele to her home—one of the too many arguments I've lost this weekend—I'm happy, really happy. I've got this beautiful woman, who is totally out of my league, sitting next to me, in a gorgeous car, driving through this gorgeous day. It's just… gorgeous.

Anastasia pulls out the caps from the glove box and hands one to me. I pull it on. As we cruise through the streets, headed toward the Interstate, I find myself lost in thought again. How is it, that this woman has affected me so in such a short amount of time? She's completely deconstructing me, and a part of me—and I don't know if it's rational or irrational—is terrified that she's going to strip me down until I'm nothing. From the beginning, it's as if she's been trying so hard to figure me out, to see the deeper parts of me.

_There's nothing there, baby,_ I think to myself absently. It's been over two weeks since I last saw Flynn, and I'm sure he'd have a lot to say about all of this.

It's true that my mood has been significantly higher this past week—relatively so. Before Anastasia fell into my office, I saw the world through a serious of black, white, and grey filters. Nothing had life. Nothing had edge.

But when that flurry of dark chestnut hair, alabaster skin, and cornflower blue eyes lurched into my office, everything exploded in a rainbow of Technicolor. There's something so different about this woman, and I can't figure out what it is. Why does she make me feel this way? She makes me second-guess nearly everything I do. I'm so much more conscious of the way I do things around her, in a way I've never been before.

I've never wanted a sub so badly.

As I think this, I glance over at her and find her gazing at me, and that blush is coloring her face. I smirk. So she's been watching me… Does she like what she sees? I reach over, squeezing her leg, right above the knee, gently. I feel her muscles tense beneath my grip, and her lips part, and though I can't hear it, I know she's catching her breath.

"Hungry?" I inquire. I'm ravenous after our expenditures this morning.

"Not particularly," she says, and my mood plummets.

How is it that she's never hungry? She hasn't eaten enough to feed a mouse in the last 24 hours.

"You must eat, Anastasia. I know a great place near Olympia. We'll stop there."

.

_Cuisine Savage_ is one of my favorite places to eat. It's small and intimate, the décor very rustic. It feels very much like a home. They do things a little differently here, and I love it. For someone who is such a—how did Anastasia put it? Oh yes—control freak—I love the unpredictability of this place. It's one of the few instances where I'm okay with just sitting back and letting life happen in front of me. It is, in fact, just a tiny piece of my day.

"I've not been here for awhile," I say to Anastasia after we are seated, and the hostess has left, "We don't get a choice—they cook whatever they've caught or gathered." I lift my eyebrows in what I hope looks like feigned terror, and it makes her laugh. Oh, how I love to hear Anastasia Steele laugh.

The waitress steps up to our table. "Hi, how are you doing today? My name's Laura, and I'll be taking care of you guys today. Can I get you something to drink?" she grips her pad and pen expectantly.

"Two glasses of the Pinot Grigio." This is my go-to wine, and in a place where I don't know what we'll be having, it's safe. This is a wine that goes with, literally, anything.

As she walks away, Anastasia purses her lips. She looks a little frustrated.

"What?"

"I wanted a Diet Coke," she whispers.

I shake my head. Oh no, Anastasia. No more of this topping from the bottom stuff. I'm in control now. "The Pinot Grigio here is a decent wine," I explain to her, "It will go well with the meal, whatever we get." I sound surprisingly composed.

"Whatever we get?" she asks.

"Yes." I grin and she reciprocates with one of her own. We stare at each other, grinning madly, stupidly, for a moment.

"My mother liked you," I feel the need to tell her.

"Really?" She seems pleased by this, flushing with pleasure.

"Oh yes. She's always thought I was gay."

Her mouth pops open. She seems to recover rather quickly and asks, "Why did she think you were gay?"

"Because she's never seen me with a girl," I answer honestly. _In fact, no one but the help has ever seen me with a girl._

"Oh… Not even one of the fifteen?"

I smile, amused at her recall, and her name for them. I suppose it's as good as any. I never thought to group them together like so. "You remembered. No, none of the fifteen."

"Oh," she murmurs.

I take a breath. "You know, Anastasia, it's been a weekend of firsts for me, too." I hear how quiet I am; it's strange to be sharing this with her. Why do I feel the need to tell her my every thought?

"It has?"

I rattle off the list: "I've never slept with anyone, never had sex in my bed, never flown a girl in _Charlie Tango_, and never introduced a woman to my mother." I pause. "What are you doing to me?" I implore her, beseeching her, as if she might know, might hold the answer.

The waitress interrupts, and I am partially grateful for it, depositing our wine in front of us. I watch her take a sip.

"I've really enjoyed this weekend," she tells me softly, and bites down on that delectable lip.

_Shit._ "Stop biting your lip," I growl. "Me, too," I add as an afterthought. Because I have. This weekend has been more enjoyable than I thought possible, and I never want it to end.

"What's vanilla sex?" The question comes from out of nowhere, and I laugh.

"Just straightforward sex, Anastasia," I say, "No toys, no add-ons. You know," I say, shrugging, "Well, actually you don't, but—that's what it means."

"Oh."

The waitress is back, this time with soup. She sets the bowls in front of us, and we stare at it, both of us rather suspicious.

"Nettle soup," the waitress says helpfully, and then she's gone.

Hmm, okay. Each of us raise our spoon to our lips and take a tentative taste. Mmmm. It's actually quite good, and I'm relieved. I wouldn't want to bring Anastasia here and have her hate the place. When I glance up at her, relieved, I find she has the same expression on her face. She giggles, and the sound is wonderful.

I tilt my head to the side, wishing it weren't so short, wishing she'd do it again. "That's a lovely sound," I tell her.

"Why have you never had vanilla sex before?" she asks, effectively ignoring the compliment, "Have you always done… er, what you've done?"

Slowly, I nod. "Sort of," I admit, and suddenly I'm swamped by anxiety again. Should I tell her? Bring her right back to the beginning? That 'owe it to her' feeling overwhelms me again. I've never felt the need to tell any of the other fifteen. Why is the need so pressing with Anastasia? I don't know. I just know I need to tell her. I look up at her. "One of my mother's friends seduced me when I was fifteen."

"Oh," she says, and I can see the shock in her eyes.

"She had… very particular tastes. I was her submissive for six years." I shrug, for the first time ever, feeling small and meek about the confession.

"Oh," she says again.

"So I do know what it involves, Anastasia."

She just stares at me, and I keep talking, hoping it will spur some kind of reaction in her. "I didn't really have a run-of-the-mill introduction to sex."

"So you never dated anyone at college?" she asks, finally speaking again.

"No." I shake my head.

The waitress comes back and clears our empty dishes.

"Why?"

I smile at her. "Do you really want to know?"

"Yes," she tells me. Okay then.

"I didn't want to. She was all I wanted, needed. And besides, she'd have beaten the shit out of me." I smile fondly at the memory.

"So if she was a friend of your mother's, how old was she?" she pushes.

I smirk at her. I don't think Elena would be very pleased if I shared her age. "Old enough to know better."

"Do you still see her?" she asks.

"Yes." Of course I do. We're business partners, and old friends.

"Do you still… er…?" she trails off, color filling her face before she can finish the question.

"No." I grin. "She's a very good friend."

"Oh. Does your mother know?

_Is she fucking serious?_ "Of course not."

The waitress is back, this time with our main course. Venison. It smells amazing, and I dig in immediately. Mmmm, so tender.

"But it can't have been full time?" Oh. We're still talking about Elena, and I wonder, briefly, if part of this doesn't sit well with her.

"Well, it was, though I didn't see her all the time. It was… difficult. After all, I was still at school and then at college." She hasn't touched her meal. "Eat up, Anastasia."

"I'm really not hungry, Christian," she returns.

Anger flares in my chest. What the fuck is her problem? Why is she never hungry? I've had just about enough of this shit. "Eat."

She stares at me, and I think she sees something that scares her in my expression. "Give me a moment."

I blink, trying to quash the anger. I didn't mean to scare her. "Okay." I keep eating. The meat is perfectly cooked, falling apart in my mouth, on my tongue. It's been served with mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables. Everything is perfect.

Anastasia reaches for her cutlery, slices the tiniest bite of venison off her steak, and chews. "Is this what our, er… relationship will be like?" she whispers once she's swallowed, "You ordering me around?"

"Yes," I murmur.

"I see." She seems troubled by this. She's biting her lip.

"And what's more, you'll want me to," I add.

She doesn't answer me, only takes another bite of her food. "It's a big step," she says.

I can see that this is difficult for her to accept. Usually, the other women I enter into contract with, already know what they want. They accept the ordering around, the submission, before they've even signed.

"It is," I tell Anastasia now, and briefly I shut my eyes. I need to give her another chance, though it kills me to do it. Please don't go… "Anastasia, you have to go with your gut. Do the research, read the contract—I'm happy to discuss any aspect. I'll be in Portland until Friday if you want to talk about it before then." I'm aware that I'm speaking too quickly, but for some reason I need to get all the words out before she can think about the first ones, "Call me—maybe we can have dinner—say, Wednesday?" Midweek, that should give her enough time to arrive at a decision. "I really want to make this work. In fact, I've never wanted anything as much as I want this to work." I watch her gravely as she processes my words, every bit the truth.

"What happened to the fifteen?" she blurts after a minute.

Again, not what I was expecting, and I feel my eyebrows lift in surprise at her question. Where did that come from? I think about that for a moment, and I shake my head, realizing that the answer was the same for most of them.

"Various things," I explain, "but it boils down to… Incompatibility." I shrug.

"And you think that I might be compatible with you?"

"Yes." _Yes. _Doesn't she remember how good we are together?

"So you're not seeing any of them anymore?" she asks.

"No, Anastasia, I'm not. I am monogamous in my relationships."

She looks a tad bit surprised. "I see," she finally says.

"Do the research, Anastasia." I watch as she sets her knife and fork down. She's barely touched a thing on her plate—two nibbles of the steak, a forkful of the mashed potatoes, none of the vegetables.

"That's it?" I demand, "That's all you're going to eat?"

She nods. It takes everything in me not to demand she eat more. She's going to need to eat more if this is going to work out. I can't have her passing out on me. What's more, I can't have her getting exhausted too soon. She'll need to keep up with me, and she's going to need to fuel her body to do so.

I down the rest of my meal. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Anastasia squirm in her seat. Oh? I glance up at her, and when our eyes lock she flushes.

"I'd give anything to know what you're thinking right at this moment," I say to her lowly. She turns even pinker, and I grin. "I can guess."

"I'm glad you can't read my mind," she mumbles.

"Your mind, no, Anastasia, but your body—_that_ I've gotten to know quite well since yesterday." I gesture for the waitress, and she comes over immediately. "We'll take the check now."

"Certainly, sir. Nothing else for you?"

"No."

She scoops up our plates, and is off.

We don't discuss anymore. I pay, and we go back to the car.

.


	11. Chapter 11

_Monday, May 23, 2011_

After my telephone conference with Dr. Flynn late in the evening yesterday, I'm left feeling much more torn about everything. He didn't offer much aid in the way of things.

"Christian, I'd advise you to take this one day at a time," he'd told me, "Anastasia is obviously stirring some very intense emotions in you, and scary as it is, I'd like you to try and focus on those. Focus on the good things she's bringing out in you, and take it a day at a time. Try not to focus so much on the past or what you worry you might be lacking in. Focus on the here. Focus on the now."

For a therapist, Dr. Flynn doesn't help me very much. But I have to admit, it's nice to have someone to talk to that I don't have to hide anything from. Over the time that I've been paying him for his counsel, we've become friends. Yes, I would consider John Flynn a friend.

Before that, I called the Apple store and purchased the newest MacBook for Miss Steele. It should be arriving this morning.

I glance at my watch. I've just finished up a video chat with the board of WSU. We've gone over the semantics for this Thursday's graduation ceremony. It's nearly twenty after eight, and I imagine it would be set-up by now, and that she would have received the email I typed to her new address, the evening previous…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Your New Computer

**Date:** May 22 2011 23:15

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Dear Miss Steele,

I trust you slept well. I hope that you put this laptop to good use, as discussed.

I look forward to dinner Wednesday.

Happy to answer any questions before then, via email, should you so desire.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

Just as I think this, my laptop 'pings', notifying me of a new email in my inbox. And though it could be anyone, the pace of my heart quickens, exhilaration spiking through my veins like adrenaline.

I navigate to the screen, and yes. It's her. I grin as I open the email.

**From:** Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Your New Computer (on loan)

**Date: **May 23 2011 08:20

**To:** Christian Grey

I slept very well, thank you—for some strange reason—Sir. I understood that this computer was on loan, ergo not mine.

Ana

I grin. _Sir_. Hmm. I like the way that sounds. I take it she's read over the contract then.

I hit 'reply'.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Your New Computer (on loan)

**Date: **May 23 2011 08:22

**To: **Anastasia Steele

The computer is on loan. Indefinitely, Miss Steele.

I note from your tone that you have read the documentation I gave you.

Do you have any questions so far?

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

A couple minutes later, a reply comes in.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Inquiring Minds

**Date: **May 23 2011 08:25

**To: **Christian Grey

I have many questions, but not suitable for email, and some of us have to work for a living.

I do not want or need a computer indefinitely.

Until later, good day. _Sir._

Ana

I grin. Such sass Miss Anastasia Steele has.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Your New Computer (again on loan)

**Date: **May 23 2011 08:26

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Laters, baby.

P.S. I work for a living, too.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

Our morning exchange has me in a good mood for the rest of the day. I handle the day ahead rather well. Halfway through, Andrea notes that I seem in higher spirits than usual.

I suppose I am.

I have lunch down the street and return to my hotel room just in time for a meeting involving the budget for the new solar powered cell phone we're working on. This is a project of mine that I'm very invested in, and so it takes up a fair bit of my attention. The meeting runs over and it's three o'clock before I realize I haven't thought of Anastasia Steele for a large chunk of time. My Blackberry buzzes in my pocket, and I pick up without checking the caller ID.

"Grey."

"Christian. How have you been?" It's Elena—and she's her usual calm, collected self.

"Elena," I say, a tad surprised by her call. Usually she emails. "I'm… Well."

"Well." My answer seems to surprise her. She repeats it a little incredulously. "A good business month? It's been nearly three weeks since we've talked."

"I've been… busy. Business is going as normal." Suddenly, I'm eager to talk to her about Anastasia. Maybe she'll know where I'm coming from. "I have a new submissive in line."

"Ah, how exciting."

"She's... different."

"Different?"

I pace to the windows, watch a few cars drive by. I run my hand through my hair, trying to piece together what I want to say about this girl. "I don't know, Elena. She's… making me feel things that I…I don't know. It's all so unfamiliar."

She's quiet for an introspective moment. "Do you have feelings for her?" she broaches the subject gently, quietly, as if she's afraid of my answer.

"No," I'm immediately snapping. "That's not a possibility."

"Christian," she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice, "You can't choose for these kinds of things to happen… they have a way of—sneaking up on you."

"She's never done this before. She… she's weighing her options."

"And you want her to say yes," she assumes aloud.

"Yes," I breathe, "Very badly. But…I also want her to make the right decision for herself. She doesn't… she deserves more than…this. More than me."

"Oh, Christian." She sounds broken hearted.

"Don't start, Elena."

"You're a good man, Christian Grey," she snaps. "I couldn't beat it into you, but maybe this Anastasia will find a way to show you that."

.

Things are slowing down for the day. I find myself wishing she were here. I'd love to have her by my side now. Lust, like a beast, snarls inside me, and I find myself wanting to fuck her. Since when did I become so insatiable?

I send her a quick email.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Working for a Living

**Date: **May 23 2011 17:24

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Dear Miss Steele,

I do hope you had a good day at work.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

I know for a fact she gets off work in six minutes.

When 5:30 comes, I check my inbox, though there is no notification. Nothing. Just something from Andrea regarding a function in the coming weeks. I try to distract myself, but all I can see in my head are images of why Anastasia hasn't replied yet. She's been hit by a car on the way home or her vehicle has broken down and someone's snatched her up…

What the fuck? Why am I thinking like this?

I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose between my finger and thumb, forcing myself to calm down. I go to the bar and pour myself a drink. I take a welcome sip, the Bourbon warming my chest as it goes down.

_PING_.

I go to my laptop, and there is a reply from Miss Steele.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Working for a Living

**Date: **May 23 2011 17:48

**To: **Christian Grey

_Sir…_ I had a very good day at work.

Thank you.

Ana

There she goes with the 'sir' thing again, and though it humors me, I get the feeling that she's mocking me. And that won't go over well. She hasn't mentioned any questions yet, and I'm itching to know if she's begun her research. It's already late afternoon Monday, and I know for a fact that she works all day. And while she's working, she won't be able to do any research.

There's limited time before we meet again, and I hope she's well equipped by then to make a decision.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Do the Work!

**Date** May 23 2011 17:50

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Miss Steele,

Delighted you had a good day.

While you are emailing, you are not researching.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

_Hint, hint._

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Nuisance

**Date: **May 23 2011 17:53

**To: **Christian Grey

Mr. Grey, stop emailing me, and I can start my assignment.

I'd like another A.

Ana

_Well, then._ She'd like another A? Such a clever, smart little thing, she is. I find myself grinning at her email.

Fuck! This woman is like a magnet, and I'm the bent and misshapen paper clip, ever drawn to her.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Impatient

**Date: **May 23 2011 17:55

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Miss Steele,

Stop emailing me—and do your assignment.

I'd like to award another A.

The first one was so well deserved. ;)

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

Briefly, I allow myself to remember that morning. The sensation of her lips around me, her fearlessness, the way she took me in, farther and farther.

Her reply startles me, the ping making me jump.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Internet Research

**Date: **May 23 2011 17:59

**To: **Christian Grey

Mr. Grey,

What would you suggest I put into a search engine?

Ana

All she'll find on Google are pornographic stills and insipid wannabe Dom/sub quotes.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Internet Research

**Date: **May 23 2011 18:02

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Miss Steele,

Always start with Wikipedia.

No more emails unless you have questions.

Understood?

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Bossy!

**Date: **May 23 2011 18:04

**To: **Christian Grey

Yes… _Sir._

You are so bossy.

Ana

I smirk as I type out my reply.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **In Control

**Date: **May 23 2011 18:06

**To:** Anastasia Steele

Anastasia, you have no idea.

Well, maybe an inkling now.

Do the work.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

I wait five minutes, and then ten, for a reply.

And despite the fact that she's listened to my orders, and she's most likely doing the research, I've hoped I would get to talk to her a little longer.

I'm grateful when my Blackberry buzzes and I take the call as a welcome distraction.


	12. Chapter 12

_Monday, May 23, 2011_

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject:** Shocked of WSU

**Date:** May 23 2011 20:33

**To:** Christian Grey

Okay, I've seen enough.

It was nice knowing you.

Ana

Dusk has come and gone by the time I receive Anastasia's email. I'm finished with work for the day, and I've been waiting for her reply for over an hour. As I read it over, shock whips through my veins like ice water. And then fear, which is quickly overrun with a confusing array of anger and lust.

_Nice knowing me?_ I'll show her nice…

It's not the immediate thought that she doesn't want me any longer; rather it's the need to make her mine that fills my body. The need is so great that I'm snatching up my car keys and tie without a second thought.

I need to fuck her, and I need to fuck her now.

And I don't know if it's because I'm angry or fearful, or what—all I know is that I need to bury myself inside her, to show her how nice it can be, knowing me.

The drive to her apartment takes longer than usual and I spend the entire ride on the edge of my seat. By the time I pull up in front of her place, my hands are sore from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. Their lights are still on, and I imagine they're up. It's still early. I head up the walk, sweeping my hand through my hair, spinning my keys around my right forefinger.

_Nice knowing me… Nice. Knowing. Me?_

I ring the bell and step back, waiting for an answer. I'm surprised when Katherine answers the door, plugged into her iPod. Behind her in the living room, I can see she's packing, for the move, I assume.

"Christian," she says, shocked, as she pulls the ear buds from her ears. "What are you doing here? Ana didn't say you were stopping by…"

"Good evening Kate," I greet her, keeping my tone even, forcing composure. "Is Anastasia at home?"

Her brows knit in confusion. "She should be in her bedroom packing." She steps back to allow me entrance.

"Thank you." I stride quickly through the living room and step through her open doorway.

She's sitting at her miniscule desk, ear buds in, reading over the contract, the end of a pencil between her teeth. Mmmm… I twitch in my pants at the sight. I take a cursory glance around the room.

So this is Anastasia Steele's bedroom… It's furnished simply with white wicker furniture, and a white iron bed. It's all soft blues and creams, very soothing, though I don't feel that way at the moment. I know there's only one way I'll feel soothed. And that's buried to the hilt inside the delectable Anastasia Steele. Unconsciously, I shift my weight from foot to foot, imagining it, and this causes her to glance up and over at me. Her eyes widen, taking me in, her eyes grazing up and down my body, and she reaches up to remove the ear buds. She doesn't say a word—only stares at me, wordless. She looks a little numb.

"Good evening, Anastasia," I murmur. I only notice now that she's been exercising. She's in sweatpants and a t-shirt, her hair tamed by two pigtails—oh, the memories those resurrect…

When she doesn't answer, I continue on. "I felt that your email warranted a reply in person." For the first time, I feel nervous about my showing up. Was this wrong of me? I've never done this before—shown up at a submissive's house. I never fuck in the middle of the week, only on weekends.

She tries to speak now, her lips parting twice before she closes them again, silent.

"May I sit?"

She's absolutely speechless, and I can't help but be amused by the fact. She's absolutely frozen in her tracks by my appearance. She nods, her eyes never leaving me as I cross to her bed and lower myself gingerly onto the edge of the mattress.

"I wondered what your bedroom would look like," I tell her, taking another glance around. "It's very serene and peaceful in here."

"How…" She speaks!

I smile. How did I get here so fast? "I'm still at the Heathman," I explain.

"W-would you like a drink?" she offers now.

I grin indulgently. A drink. She's offering me a drink? Does that mean she needs one? "No thank you, Anastasia." Right now, I'd like a drink of you, however. I cut to the chase. "So," I say, "It was _nice_ knowing me?"

Her gaze falls to her hands, which sit knotted in her lap. "I thought you'd reply by email," she finally says, her tone small, and meek, and… apologetic? No, not quite. Embarrassed, yes. She bites down on her lip.

The sight stirs lust, dark and thick, deep, deep inside, and I feel my cock stir, jolting awake with a start, standing to attention. "Are you biting your lower lip deliberately?" I ask her, and my voice sounds husky.

She gasps, blinking spastically at me, and frees her lip. "I wasn't aware I was biting my lip," she nearly whispers.

I need to touch her now, so I lean forward and undo one of her pigtails, the strands of hair coming apart in my fingers. I can hear her breathing shallowly, and her face is deliciously pink. Even from where I sit, I can feel the warmth radiating in waves off of her. I move to the next pigtail, undoing that one too.

Sitting this close to her, I can smell her—the sexy, sultry scent of Anastasia Steele, but the usual freesia and sandalwood has a tangy edge, sharpened by the smell of her sweat. The thought turns me on, imagining the dampness beneath her breasts, between her thighs, under her arms. The sheen across her skin…

"So you decided on some exercise," I whisper, and I barely recognize my voice it's so full of want. I tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, and I brush my fingers around it, tugging on her earlobe gently. "Why, Anastasia?"

"I needed time to think," she rushes to explain, her voice still soft and low, quiet.

"Think about what, Anastasia?" I can see I'm affecting her, and the idea makes my insides hum.

"You," she whispers.

Inside, I'm screaming, torn apart by anxiety and fear. The bigger part of me just needs to fuck her—that's the main priority here. Maybe that'll give her something to think about…

"And you decided that it was nice knowing me?" I ask her, "Do you mean knowing me in the biblical sense?"

She flushes deeper, and the sight makes me smile. "I didn't think you were familiar with the Bible," she says, and though I'm sure she means to sound tart, instead she just sounds breathless and shameful.

"I went to Sunday school, Anastasia. It taught me a great deal," I tell her. How's that for information?

"I don't remember reading about nipple clamps in the Bible," she snaps now, and I can hear it now, the sass. Oh, this smart mouth of hers… "Perhaps you were taught from a modern translation."

I feel the corners of my lips twitch up. So clever, so funny. "Well, I thought I should come and remind you how _nice_ it was knowing me." _I'd like to fuck you now, Miss Steele…_ She doesn't say anything, just stares at me open mouthed, and I brush my fingers from the edge of her ear, sweeping down her jaw, to her chin. "What do you say to that, Miss Steele?"

Say yes.

Out of nowhere, lust sparks in her eyes and she dives at me. I react quickly, gripping her shoulders and twisting, pressing her into the mattress underneath me, and I pull her arms up over her head, locking her wrists in my hands, making her my prisoner.

I sweep my face down to hers, forcing my tongue between her lips, into her mouth, claiming her. Oh, my sweet, sweet Anastasia. She tastes so good. Oh, I want her, and I press the length of my body against hers.

After an indulgent moment, I pull back from our kiss, and stare down at her. Her eyelids flutter open, and the blue in her irises burns straight through me.

"Trust me?" I whisper. She nods, her gaze wide, expectant. I can feel her heart pounding against my chest. I pull the tie from my pocket, and rise up, swinging a leg over her hips. I sit astride her, effectively pinning her hips down, and bring her wrists together. I loop my tie around them and knot the other end to the grid of her headboard, tugging firmly to ensure its security. Slowly, I slide off of her and stand back to admire my work. Mmmm, I want her. And she wants me. The realization warms the ice water in my veins, and it simmers, heating quickly. Desire courses my blood, now hot, through my body, down below my waistline, and I feel myself hardening.

"That's better," I mumble, and grin. Now to get her naked. I lean down and undo her right sneaker.

"No," she argues, kicking.

I stop. "If you struggle, I'll tie your feet, too." _Mmmm, there's an idea. _For an instant, I imagine her shackled to a spreader bar. "If you make noise, Anastasia, I will gag you. Keep quiet. Katherine is probably outside listening right now." I know full well that she's not. She can't hear us past her earphones. They're Bose, and so they're good quality, noise cancelling.

This seems to subdue her. She quits her protest and lets me remove her shoes and socks. Such sexy feet Anastasia has. They're small and ladylike. I reach up and tug the waistband of her sweatpants down over her hips. I drop them on the floor, and then lift her hips from the mattress and remove her bedclothes from underneath her, so they're out of the way. This could get messy. I lay her back down.

"Now then," I murmur, watching her teeth clench down on her lip. I run my tongue over my own bottom lip. "You're biting that lip, Anastasia. You know the effect it has on me." I put my finger over her mouth.

I step back, resisting the urge to pull her lip into my mouth and bite it, hard. I take off my socks and shoes, undo the button on my pants, and pull my shirt off, teasing her.

"I think you've seen too much." I chuckle, going back over to her, swinging to sit astride her again and pull her t-shirt up, exposing some more of that glorious, perfect skin. I roll it up so that it covers just her eyes, but I can still see her nose and her mouth.

Oh my fuck. She looks so sexy like this, tied to her bed, blindfolded. The realization hits, as it does every time, that she must now rely completely on me. She can trust me. She _needs_ to trust me.

"Mmmm. This just gets better and better," I breathe, appreciating the view for a moment longer. "I'm going to get a drink." I kiss her chastely and climb off the bed, striding from her room.

Kate is still in the living room, packing boxes. It's obvious she hasn't heard a word of our exchange in the bedroom. She glances up momentarily when I walk into the room, her eyes widening slightly at my state of undress, but quickly she turns back to the task at hand. She's packing CD's into a crate.

"Is there something you need, Christian?" she inquires, absentmindedly.

"Do you happen to have any wine, Miss Kavanagh? Anastasia and I were going to share a drink together."

Kate's eyes flick toward Anastasia's bedroom, where, unbeknownst to her, her best friend is tied up and blindfolded on her bed, nearly naked. She looks about to say something, but then seems to change her mind rather quickly. "I've just put a bottle in the fridge," she says, nodding toward the kitchen, "It's not quite chilled. There's ice in the freezer."

I nod in acknowledgement and step into the kitchen to fix my drink. When I return, Anastasia is just where I've left her. Her hands flex slightly against the strain of my tie.

_Shit, she's gorgeous._

I set the glass of wine on her bedside table, as well as the condoms I have brought, and remove my pants and boxers as one. I stride over to the bed, and kneel over her once again.

"Are you thirsty, Anastasia?" I inquire, unable to hide my amused smirk. Oh, this is hot. Hotter than it's ever been. Anastasia Steele, tied up and blindfolded beneath me, completely at my mercy… Finally submissive, that smart mouth finally subdued. I think of other ways I could subdue that mouth…

"Yes," she breathes now, nearly moans, her chin tilting up slightly, exposing some of that amazing skin along the column of her throat.

I take some of the wine into my mouth. It tastes cool and crisp, the ice working fast. I lean over to kiss her, and as she opens her mouth to accept me, I pour the wine into her mouth. She swallows quickly, eagerly.

"More?" She nods, and I administer another mouthful. "Let's not go too far," I say now, setting the glass aside. I really want to fuck her. I'm hardly able to hold myself back. Not for the second time, I'm finding myself appalled at what this woman does to me. "We know your capacity for alcohol is limited, Anastasia," I tease her.

She grins, and, oh, what the hell—I give her another mouthful. A dribble overflows and slips down her jaw, down her throat, puddling on the sheets beneath her. I shift to lie down beside her, pressing myself languidly against her hip. _Feel me, baby._

"Is this _nice_?" I demand. I feel her muscles clench and tense up. I reach up for another sip of wine, and lean down to kiss her again, depositing a small sliver of ice in her mouth this time. I move my lips to her jaw, her throat, heading south casually, leisurely, taking my sweet time. I kiss the skin between her breasts, down her torso, to that gorgeous plane of flat belly. I ease a bit of ice into her belly button, and her skin is so hot that it melts almost immediately.

"Now you have to keep still," I warn, "If you move, Anastasia, you'll get wine all over the bed." I grin. So our training begins. This is going to be fun…

Her hips arch, just slightly, and I grin, watching the wine and melted ice nearly overflow. "Oh no," I tut, "If you spill the wine, I will punish you, Miss Steele." And I don't care who hears…

She groans quietly, and pulls at the prison my tie makes around her wrists. _No way out, baby…_ I lift a hand, pulling down each of her bra cups in turn—leave it to Anastasia to make a sports bra look unbelievably sexy. I capture each of those pink, luscious nipples between my lips, tugging, sucking gently. I feel her entire body tense as she fights its automatic response.

"How _nice_ is this?" I whisper, blowing softly on her nipple, watching it harden and elongate beneath my cool breath. I take another sip of drink, swallowing the wine, but keeping the shard of ice in my mouth. I bend and take her right nipple between my lips, pressing the ice against her. I twist the other between my fingers.

She moans, and I can hear the desperation in it. _Yes, baby, want me._

"If you spill the wine, I won't let you come," I threaten her.

"Oh…" she breaths, "please… Christian… Sir… Please."

Oh my fuck. She's called me Sir _and_ begged me at the same time. I am rock, rock hard, straining for release. Oh, I need to fuck her. I trail my fingers over her belly—so smooth…—and her hips lift, the wine in her navel spills over. I rush to lap it up, kissing and biting her softly as I go.

"Oh dear, Anastasia, you moved. What am I going to do with you?"

Her breathing is chaotic and too loud, and I slip my fingers into her panties, finding purchase against her sex. It's warm and damp, and I gasp. She is always so ready for me. Fucking hell, it's hot.

"Oh, baby," I groan, and ease two fingers inside of her. Oh, she's tight and wet, and hot. She gasps at my sudden intrusion. "Ready for me so soon." I pull my fingers out, and push them in again, slowly, teasing her, and she grinds her hips into my hand. "You are a greedy girl," I reprimand. I circle her clitoris with my thumb, slick with her arousal, once, twice, and press down firmly.

She groans, loudly, and her body bucks in response. The sudden need to see those eyes grips me, and I stretch up, pushing her t-shirt over her head. She blinks in the diffused light her lamp casts.

"I want to touch you," she whispers to me.

"I know." I kiss her, continuing to tease her, moving my fingers in and out, in and out, and my thumb round and round. With my other hand I grip her hair, holding her in place, and with my tongue mimic the action of my fingers, in her mouth.

She tenses against me, I feel her legs begin to strain, her breathing growing ragged, and I gentle my actions, bringing her back from the edge. _Oh, no, Miss Steele. Not this time._ I'm angry with her. She needs to know that I'm the one in charge, I'm in the one in control, and I call the shots here.

"This is your punishment, so close and yet so far," I hiss softly in her ear, easing her back once more, "Is this _nice_?"

She whimpers softly, tugging on the tie again. "Please," she implores.

"How shall I fuck you, Anastasia?" I ask her.

"_Oh_…" she breathes, and begins to quake again. I stop my hand. "Please."

"What do you want, Anastasia?" I ask her.

"You," she cries, and the word is a sweet, sweet melody, "Now!"

_Oh, Miss Steele… Me you shall get._ "Shall I fuck you this way, or this way, or this way?" I picture each possibility in my mind, and in each envisaged position, she appears equally as breathtaking. "There's an endless choice." I pull my fingers out of her and reach over to her bedside table for a condom, tearing the packet open. I kneel above her, peeling her panties off, and roll the condom on.

She watches my every action, her eyes wide, lips parted in frenzied, mesmerized lust. Oh, she wants me.

"How _nice_ is this?" I hiss, pumping myself softly with my hand.

"I meant it as a joke," she sobs.

I feel my eyebrows lift. "A joke?" A _joke_? There is nothing funny about that. Where on fucking Earth would she find the humor in something like that?

"Yes," she says, "Please, Christian."

"Are you laughing now?" I demand of her.

"No!"

I gaze down at her for a moment. Oh, she needs me—and I, her. I grip her hips in my hands, and flip her over. Oh, that sweet, sweet ass. I push her knees up under her hips, slap her hard on the behind—the sharp sound is music to my ears—and I slam into her.

She falls apart around me instantly, multiple orgasms ripping through her as she cries out incoherently, but I don't pause.

I don't scold her for coming—in fact, maybe I've wanted her to come the entire time, and suddenly, it's imperative that it happens again. I thrust into her again and again and again. Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"Come on, Anastasia," I grind out through my teeth, "Again." I'm so close…

Beneath me, Anastasia falls apart again, and I still, deep inside of her, finding my own release. My weight gives out underneath me, and I sprawl across her back, spent.

"How _nice_ was that?" I command once I've caught my breath.

She doesn't respond, exhausted and sprawled beneath me. She's still breathing hard. I ease myself out of her, pulling off the condom and knotting the end. I rise, depositing the used condom in the wastebasket by her desk and begin to dress. Once my shirt is buttoned, I go back to her and undo her restraint. I pull her t-shirt off. She rubs her wrists and fixes her bra. I cover her with the duvet and quilt, smirking down at her. She's staring at me, completely baffled, some unreadable expression in her eyes. What is she thinking? What is she staring at?

"That was really nice," she whispers, and she grins softly. Is she teasing me?

"There's that word again."

"You don't like that word?" she asks. Her eyelids look heavy. She'll be asleep soon. I, however, know I won't sleep much tonight. I'm too keyed up now.

"No," I answer, "It doesn't do it for me at all."

"Oh—I don't know… it seems to have a very beneficial effect on you," she argues.

"I'm a beneficial effect, now am I?" I ask her, slightly offended. Is that all? "Could you wound my ego any further, Miss Steele?"

"I don't think there's anything wrong with your ego," she says, though I'm not convinced she's being entirely truthful. It doesn't sound that way.

"You think?"

"Why don't you like to be touched?" she asks suddenly.

Oh, for fuck's sake. We are not going there. That's none of her fucking business. "I just don't." I lean over and kiss her on the forehead. Quickly, I change subject. "So, that email was your idea of a joke."

She smiles, and it seems a bit regretful. Beneath the covers, she shrugs her shoulders.

"I see. So you are still considering my proposition?" I ask, and internally I'm crossing my fingers, like a little girl. Suppose this is the night I get my 'yes'? _Suppose this is the night you get your 'no',_ my subconscious counters.

"Your indecent proposal… yes, I am," she says, but adds, "I have issues though."

I grin at her, relief washing through me. "I'd be disappointed if you didn't," I tell her honestly. This is a two-way street.

"I was going to email them to you, but you kind of interrupted me."

"Coitus interruptus," I quip.

"See, I knew you had a sense of humor in there somewhere," she teases, and blesses me with a gorgeous, shy smile.

"Only certain things are funny, Anastasia. I thought you were saying no, no discussion at all," I scold her, and as I say the words, dread fills me up like a flood, and I'm drowning in it.

"I don't know yet. I haven't made up my mind… Will you collar me?"

"You have been doing your research. I don't know, Anastasia. I've never collared anyone."

"Were you collared?" she breathes.

"Yes," I answer truthfully.

"By Mrs. Robinson."

"Mrs. Robinson!" I laugh, loudly. Miss Steele and her names for these things. What a laugh Elena would have if I told her what Anastasia Steele has dubbed her. I find her grinning back at me. "I'll tell her you said that; she'll love it."

"You still talk to her regularly?" she sounds surprised, and a little disappointed.

"Yes," I tell her warily. She doesn't sound quite… Okay with this.

"I see. So you have someone you can discuss your alternative lifestyle with, but I'm not allowed."

I frown. "I don't think I've ever thought about it like that. Mrs. Robinson was part of that lifestyle. I told you, she's a good friend now. If you'd like, I can introduce you to one of my former subs. You could talk to her." _Leila might be a good fit… Or Susannah. _

"Is this _your_ idea of a joke?" She sounds horrified.

"No, Anastasia." What is she all riled up about?

"No," she snaps, "I'll do this on my own, thank you very much." She pulls the bedcovers up to her chin.

I stare at her for a very long moment, at a loss for words. Is she… Angry? With me? I've hurt her feelings? "Anastasia, I…" I begin, and then stop, floundering for words. This is so strange. I've never not known what to say before. "I didn't mean to offend you."

"I'm not offended. I'm appalled," she tells me.

"Appalled?"

"I don't want to talk to one of your ex-girlfriends… slave… sub… whatever you call them."

And suddenly, it clicks together. She's practically turning jade. "Anastasia Steele—are you jealous?" Now it's my turn to be taken aback.

She turns beet red, the color filling the sliver of skin at her throat I can see, and her entire face, all the way up to her forehead. "Are you staying?"

Staying? No, no. I can't stay. "I have a breakfast meeting tomorrow at the Heathman." Phil, from the WSU farming division based in Vancouver, is coming to meet with me. "Besides, I told you, I don't sleep with girlfriends, slaves, subs, or anyone. Friday and Saturday were exceptions. It won't happen again." I'm reprimanding myself just as I am her. This _can't_ happen again. I won't allow it.

Her lips come together, into a pouty purse. "Well, I'm tired now."

All at once I feel amused and confounded, all at the same time. "Are you kicking me out?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Well, that's another first." I gaze at her for a moment. I don't want to leave, and I stall for just a little more time. "So nothing you want to discuss now? About the contract?" I know for a fact she has issues she wants to talk about. She's just told me this.

"No." She is so defiant.

"God, I'd like to give you a good hiding," I tell her, "You'd feel a lot better, and so would I."

"You can't say things like that," she stammers, a little flummoxed, "I haven't signed anything yet."

"A man can dream, Anastasia." I grip her chin in my fingers and plant a kiss on her lips. "Wednesday?"

"Wednesday," she confirms, "I'll see you out. If you give me a minute."

That's preposterous. There's no need. But she's already sitting up, pulling on her t-shirt. She shoves me out of the way, swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress. I stand, a little entertained at her persistence. My God, she's stubborn.

"Please pass me my sweatpants."

I do. "Yes ma'am," I tease her, trying, and failing, to suppress my grin.

She narrows her eyes at me. Her hair is a haystack; her cheeks still flushed from her multiple orgasms. She snatches a hair tie off the edge of her desk and stalks over to the door, pulling it wide open.

I follow Anastasia out, into the living room. Miss Kavanagh is nowhere in sight, though I can hear her talking on the phone in what I assume is her bedroom. As Anastasia pulls open the front door, I watch her mood shift. She's no longer rigged-backed and purse-lipped. She's no longer annoyed—in fact, she looks shy and embarrassed, and… sad.

I stop in the doorway and tenderly grip her chin, tilting her head back so I can see her face. "You okay?"

"Yes."

_Okay then. _I'm not quite sure I believe her, but I'll take her word for it, for now. I'm not in any shape to hang around and push the issue. There are too many emotions rioting through me. Too many tug-and-pull feelings. Should I stay or should I go? Of course I need to go. This is the way things are going to be from now on.

"Wednesday," I say now, and I kiss her softly. I mean for it to be short and sweet, but as my lips touch hers, the aloofness gives way to urgency, and I press my mouth against hers more firmly, needing to taste her, needing to feel her closeness. I want to stay. I want to stay so badly. Finally, I force myself to pull away, and I press my forehead to hers, not daring to open my eyes. I scramble to tame the sensations inside. There's so many of them, and all of them are so intense, so strong. I can't begin to tell one from the other. They have my heart pounding.

"Anastasia, what are you doing to me?"

"I could say the same to you," she murmurs.

I kiss her forehead, and I leave.

~~…~~

When I get back to the hotel, I type up a quick email to Anastasia, and then I head down to the pool, to sit in the steam room for a while.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **This Evening

**Date: **May 23 2011 23:16

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Miss Steele,

I look forward to receiving your notes on the contract.

Until then, sleep well, baby.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.


	13. Chapter 13

_Tuesday, May 24 2011_

I've spent close to 45 minutes in the steam room downstairs, and I am heading back up to my suite, hoping for a shower, finally feeling relaxed enough to possibly fall asleep, when my Blackberry chimes, informing me I have a new email.

I am surprised when I see it is Anastasia, and upon opening the email, I find it's long—really long. I wait until I'm back in the room to read it.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Issues

**Date: **May 24 2011 00:02

**To: **Christian Grey

Dear Mr. Grey,

Here is my list of issues. I look forward to discussing them more fully at dinner on Wednesday.

The numbers refer to clauses:

2: Not sure why this is solely for MY benefit—i.e., to explore MY sensuality and limits. I'm sure I wouldn't need a ten-page contract to do that! Surely this is for YOUR benefit.

4: As you are aware, you are my only sexual partner. I don't take drugs, and I've not had any blood transfusions. I'm probably safe. What about you?

8: I can terminate at any time if I don't think you're sticking to the agreed limits. Okay—I like this.

9: Obey you in all things? Accept without hesitation your discipline? We need to talk about this.

11: One-month trial period. Not three.

12: I cannot commit every weekend. I do have a life, or will have. Perhaps three out of four?

15.2: Using my body as you see fit sexually or otherwise—please define "or otherwise."

15.5: This whole discipline clause. I'm not sure I want to be whipped, flogged, or corporally punished. I am sure this would be in breach of clauses 2-5. And also "for any other reason." That's just mean—and you told me you weren't a sadist.

15.10: Like loaning me out to someone else would ever be an option. But I'm glad it's here in black and white.

15.14: The Rules. More on those later.

15.19: Touching myself without your permission. What's the problem with this? You know I don't do it anyway.

15.21: Discipline—please see clause 15.5 above.

15.22: I can't look into your eyes? Why?

15.24: Why can't I touch you?

Rules:

Sleep—I'll agree to six hours.

Food—I am not eating food from a prescribed list. The food list goes or I do—deal breaker.

Clothes—as long as I only have to wear your clothes when I'm with you… okay.

Exercise—We agreed on three hours, this still says four.

Soft Limits:

Can we go through all of these? No fisting of any kind. What is suspension?

Genital clamps—you have got to be kidding me.

Can you please let me know the arrangements for Wednesday? I am working until five p.m. that day.

Good night.

Ana

Holy fuck! I leave and she opens up like a clam.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Issues

**Date: **May 24 2011 00:07

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Miss Steele,

That's a long list. Why are you still up?

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Burning the Midnight Oil

**Date: **May 24 2011 00:10

**To: **Christian Grey

Sir,

If you recall, I was going through this list when I was distracted and bedded by a passing control freak.

Good night.

Ana

**From:** Christian Grey

**Subject:** Stop Burning the Midnight Oil

**Date:** May 24 2011 00:12

**To:** Anastasia Steele

GO TO BED, ANASTASIA

Christian Grey &amp; Control Freak, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

I run a hand, in exasperation, through my hair. Shit, this woman is something else. I read over her email twice, referring to the contract and the clauses she's specified, each in turn. Sounds to me that she as an issue with anything that has to do with submission. I find myself smirking at the realization, but then my gut drops out from under me in almost immediate succession.

Is this really for her? Am I asking too much of her?

"Fuck," I mutter aloud. I abandon my phone on the edge of the bed and head into the bathroom to turn on the shower. Under the hot, steady stream of the showerhead, I have time to think things over.

Okay, so the fucking is amazing. I've never had a woman whose body fit mine so perfectly. She's unbelievable, and though I know she needs a lot of training, the thought doesn't daunt me. I'm more than willing to show her how.

She's beautiful, she's got a smart mouth, and she stands her own. She challenges me, and for the first time, I realize that I kind of like that. I'm so used to having women listen to my every beck and call, to never question anything I ask of them, and so, to be confronted by Anastasia like this is kind of refreshing. It's new, and it's… exciting.

She's not a natural born submissive; though I was sure she would be on that first day. I compare this smart mouthed, stubborn woman to the meek and mild girl who fell into my office two weeks ago. First impressions are not always correct.

The water runs cold before I realize how long I've been standing there. I shut the water off, and dry myself quickly. I pull on a pair of pajama pants, rub the towel through my hair, and flop onto the mattress. Before I know it, I'm asleep.

.. ~..

_Mommy! Mommy!_

_Mommy is asleep on the floor. She has been asleep for a long time. I brush her hair because she likes that. She doesn't wake up. I shake her. Mommy! _

_My tummy hurts. It is hungry. He isn't here. I am thirsty. In the kitchen I pull a chair to the sink, and I have a drink. The water splashes over my blue sweater. _

_Mommy is still asleep. Mommy wake up! She lies still. She is cold. I fetch my blankie, and I cover Mommy, and I lie down on the sticky green rug beside her. Mommy is still asleep. _

_I have two toy cars. They race by the floor where Mommy is sleeping. I think Mommy is sick. _

_I search for something to eat. In the freezer I find peas. They are cold. I eat them slowly. They make my tummy hurt. I sleep beside Mommy. _

_The peas are gone. In the freezer is something. It smells funny. I lick it and my tongue is stuck to it. I eat it slowly. It tastes nasty. I drink some water. I play with my cars, and I sleep beside Mommy. Mommy is so cold, and she won't wake up._

_The door crashes open. I cover Mommy with my blankie. He's here._

_**Fuck! What the fuck happened here? Oh, the crazy fucked-up bitch! Shit! Fuck! Get out of my way, you little shit!**_

_He kicks me, and I hit my head on the floor. My head hurts. He calls somebody and he goes. He locks the door._

_I lay down beside Mommy. My head hurts._

_The lady policeman is here. No. No. No. Don't touch me. Don't touch me. Don't touch me. I stay by Mommy. No. Stay away from me. The lady policeman has my blankie, and she grabs me. I scream._

_Mommy! Mommy! I want my mommy._

_The words are gone. I can't say the words. Mommy can't hear me. I have no words._

Some sound wakes me. Someone is wailing. Clarity slowly returns, and the sound grows louder, closer, I realize it's me. I stop screaming, and sit up in bed. My face is wet, the tears making my cheeks sticky, and I rub my palms harshly over my face.

Fuck. I've gone the longest stretch without a nightmare, but they're back. I am alone in bed, in the Heathman. I check the time. It's still early, much too early to get up. I lie back down, flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. It is quiet outside. Every once in a while I can hear a car slip past in the night. There is nothing to soothe me here. The gym won't be open yet, there is no piano. And Anastasia is home, in bed.

I startle at the direction my thoughts have taken, but I suppose she does offer a sort of calm. Fucking her leaves me sated and replete the way fucking anyone else never has. I want to go to her now. The desperation, the need, which fills me, takes me off guard, and I find myself getting out of bed. I'm pulling off my sleep t-shirt, about to dress to go to her when I realize it's nearly one thirty in the morning. I shake my head. I can't go to her now. Instead I run a bath, as hot as I can stand it, and sink in.

I need her. I need her to be my submissive, and despite all the thoughts I've had earlier in the evening, there is only the need. I need her to try. I need her to say yes. Once the bath has run cold, I climb out and compose an email to Miss Steele.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject:** Your Issues

**Date: **May 24 2011 01:27

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Dear Miss Steele,

Following my more thorough examination of your issues, may I bring to your attention the definition of submissive?

Submissive [_suh_b-mis-iv]—_adjective _

inclined or ready to submit; unresistingly or humbly obedient: _submissive servants._

marked by or indicating submission: _a submissive reply._

Origin: 1580-90; submiss + -ive

_Synonyms: _1\. tractable, compliant, pliant, amenable. 2. passive, resigned, patient, docile, tame, subdued. _Antonyms:_ 1\. rebellious, disobedient.

Please bear this in mind for our meeting on Wednesday.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

~~…~~

Tuesday morning passes in a blur, mostly. I'm exhausted from the horrible sleep I've had the night before, and nothing seems to be sticking. I often have to ask someone to repeat themselves, twice, and I know it's because I'm distracted by the fact that Anastasia hasn't responded to my email yet. I'm going to have a coronary if she doesn't give me an answer soon.

As the afternoon wears on, I'm able to possess more of a grip on things, and I wonder if it's due to the break I took earlier, in order to go to the gym. I've just finished up a conference with the board and am booking my next session with Claude—when I've returned home—when my inbox notifies me of an incoming email. I glance over idly—I have, in fact, been receiving emails from people all day—I find that it's from Anastasia.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **My Issues… What about your Issues?

**Date: **May 24 2011 18:29

**To: **Christian Grey

Sir,

Please note the date of origin: 1580-90.

I would respectfully remind Sir that the year is 2011. We have come a long way since then.

May I offer a definition for _you_ to consider for our meeting.

compromise [kom-p_ruh_-mayhz]—noun

a settlement of differences by mutual concessions; an agreement reached by adjustment of conflicting or opposing claims, principles, etc., by reciprocal modification of demands. 2. the result of such a settlement. 3. something intermediate between different things: _The split-level is a compromise between a ranch house and a multistoried house. _4\. an endangering, esp. of reputation; exposure to danger, suspicion, etc.: _a compromise of one's integrity._

Ana

Okay, so she's made a good point—as she's prone to do.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **What about My Issues?

**Date: **May 24 2011 18:32

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Good point, well made, as ever, Miss Steele. I will collect you from your apartment at 7:00 tomorrow.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

I've assumed our conversation is over, and am striding across the room toward the telephone, to order room service for dinner, when a ping from my inbox interrupts me.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **2011—Women Can Drive

**Date: **May 24 2011 18:40

**To: **Christian Grey

Sir,

I have a car. I can drive.

I would prefer to meet you somewhere.

Where shall I meet you?

At your hotel at 7:00?

Ana

As I read, I run my hand through my hair in exasperation.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Stubborn Young Women

**Date: **May 24 2011 18:43

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Dear Miss Steele,

I refer to my email dated May 24, 2011, sent at 1:27 and the definition contained therein.

Do you ever think you'll be able to do what you're told?

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

I know enough about Anastasia now to know this won't be the last email of the night. I await her reply.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Intractable Men

**Date: **May 24 2011 18:49

**To: **Christian Grey

Mr. Grey,

I would like to drive.

Please.

Ana

Oh, for fuck's sake. The fact that she's asked for permission has softened me some.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Exasperated Men

**Date: **May 24 2011 18:52

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Fine.

My hotel at 7:00.

I'll meet you in the Marble Bar.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Not So Intractable Men

**Date: **May 24 2011 18:55

**To: **Christian Grey

Thank you.

Ana x

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Exasperating Women

**Date: **May 24 2011 18:59

**To: **Anastasia Steele

You're welcome.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

~~…~~

_Wednesday, May 25, 2011_

It's 6:30 on Wednesday evening, and I've just come back to my room from a very impromptu run on the treadmill in the fitness center downstairs. I needed to do something to curb the raging anxiety—and let's be honest—lust, at the prospect of seeing Miss Steele again. Once I'm showered, I dress in a simple white linen shirt, black jeans, black tie, and jacket. Keep it simple, understated. I want to set the tone for our meeting—yes, meeting. Business meeting—as docile and calm. I've never had to do this before. All of this… added shit is so strange. Usually, we've dealt with the negotiations already—if there even are any; often there aren't—and we're onto the next order of business. I should have gotten a 'yes' by now, and the thought angers me.

Why is Anastasia Steele so fucking stubborn?

I make my way down to the bar and order a class of Sancerre. I don't sit—I'm too nervous. I'm halfway finished with my glass and glance toward the entrance for, probably, the sixth time. I'm aware I'm nervous—my heart is revving in my chest like a Formula One engine.

And there she stands, Miss Anastasia Steele. In a dress. And heels. Mmmm… she looks divine. The dress is purple, and it suits her wonderfully, bringing out the blue in her eyes, the rose in her complexion. The heels are high, and match her dress; her legs look amazing in them. Her hair drifts in sexy waves down her back and to her breasts.

_Oh, fuck me._


	14. Chapter 14

_Wednesday, May 25 2011_

"You look stunning," I murmur in her ear, once I've met her halfway across the bar. I lean down to kiss her on the cheek, making it clear to many of the men staring, that she's mine… Well, nearly. I'd like to fuck her, badly. However, I'll wait until after the negotiations are over.

"A dress, Miss Steele. I approve," I tell her, and take her arm, leading her over to a nearby booth. I signal the waiter. "What would you like to drink?" I ask, turning to her.

The corners of her lips turn up in a small smile, and I wonder if she's laughing at me. "I'll have what you're having, please," she says sweetly.

She _is_ laughing at me, and the realization makes me want to spank her, but amuses me, all at the same time. How confusing.

The waiter steps up to our table; I order another glass of Sancerre for Ana. "They have an excellent wine cellar here," I tell her, making idle talk. Is it because I'm out of my mind with anxiety? I prop my elbows on the table, resting my chin on the temple my fingers make. I fix my eyes on her face, not knowing if I'll ever be able to tear my gaze away again. I can't make out what she's thinking.

"Are you nervous?" I ask her softly.

"Yes," she murmurs.

"Me, too," I whisper. She blinks at me, seeming a little shocked, and I grin at her. _Yes, Miss Steele, I get nervous too. _Though, only around her…

The waiter is back, with Anastasia's glass of wine, and two small dishes—one with olives, the other with an assorted mix of nuts.

"So, how are we going to do this?" she inquires once he's gone. "Run through my points one by one?"

"Impatient as ever, Miss Steele," I say, amused.

"Well, I could ask you what you thought of the weather today."

I smile again, and reach for an olive. As I pop it in my mouth, I watch the way her gaze loiters on my mouth. She flushes. Hmm. What's she thinking about? "I thought the weather today was particularly unexceptional today." And I lift the corners of my lips into a smirk, humoring her.

"Are you smirking at me, Mr. Grey?" she demands.

"I am, Miss Steele." _What are you gonna do about it?_

"You know this contract is legally unenforceable," she says after a moment, looping right back to the chase. She's leaning toward me slightly, hands in her lap. Those blue eyes are so intense, her gaze slicing through me like lightening.

"I am fully aware of that, Miss Steele."

"Were you going to tell me that at any point?" she asks.

I frown. "You'd think I'd coerce you into something you don't want to do, and then pretend that I have a legal hold over you?" What kind of person does she think I am?

"Well… yes," she admits.

Her admission fills my stomach with lead, and it falls to the ground. She really doesn't trust me? No—maybe, she just doesn't know me well enough. That's understandable; we've only known each other a little more than two weeks. Despite the fact, I've shown her everything. She's seen the deepest parts of my life. How can she not know me? Awareness hits, and suddenly I understand. "You don't think very highly of me, do you?" I ask her. It makes absolute sense to me.

"You haven't answered my question," she counters.

"Anastasia," I say, "It doesn't matter if it's legal or not. It represents an arrangement that I would like to make with you—what I would like from you and what you can expect from me. If you don't like it, then don't sign. If you do sign and then decide you don't like it, there are enough get-out clauses so you can walk away. Even if it were legally binding, do you think I'd drag you through the courts if you decide to run?" Alarm fills me as I realize that maybe this is exactly what she thinks. I want to do degrading, very rude things to her in my playroom. Why would she think I wouldn't do them anywhere else? Does she have any faith in me at all?

I watch her take a long, contemplative sip of her wine. I surge forward into explanation: "Relationships like this are built on honesty and trust. If you don't trust me—trust me to know how I'm affecting you, how far I can go with you, how far I can take you—if you can't be honest with me, then we really can't do this." I pause, taking a quick lungful of air as the pain at the prospect slices through me. "So it's quite simple, Anastasia. Do you trust me or not?"

"Did you have similar discussions with, um… the fifteen?"

_Why the fuck does she keep changing the subject when I ask her that? _"No."

"Why not?"

"Because," I tell her—the answer is quite straightforward, "They were all established submissives. They knew what they wanted out of a relationship with me and generally what I expected. With them, it was just a question of fine-tuning the soft limits, details like that."

"Is there a store you go to?" she demands, "Submissives 'R' Us?" She doesn't quirk a brow, though I know she's being tart.

I can't help it, I laugh, though in any other instance, I'd want to flog her for being so sassy with me. "Not exactly."

"Then how?"

_Why does this matter? _The only one I want, right now, is her. Where I find my other submissives, really, is so far off the grid of relevance. "Is that what you want to discuss? Or shall we get down to the nitty-gritty? Your issues, as you say."

I watch her throat convulse as she swallows hard. That tiny crinkle appears between her brows, and she seems lost in thought. "Are you hungry?" I interrupt her; she glances up at me quickly.

"No."

"Have you eaten today?" I ask, trying desperately to tame my temper.

She stares at me momentarily, and I know the answer before she speaks. "No." She has the grace to sound contrite.

"You have to eat, Anastasia," I push, feeling like a broken record. How many times have I fucking told her this? "We can eat down here or in my suite. What would you prefer?"

"I think we should stay in public, on neutral ground," she says, and I know it's because she thinks I won't try anything this way.

_Try me. _I can feel a grin making its way onto my face. "Do you think that would stop me?"

Her eyes go wide, and she swallows again. "I hope so."

Her reaction makes me grin even wider. "Come," I tell her now, standing, "I have a private dining room booked. No public." I hold my hand out to her. She reaches for me.

"Bring your wine," I remind her. I know that I'm encouraging her drinking a little too passionately. But I also know she's braver with a little bit of alcohol in her system, which will help her to be honest with me tonight.

She grips it in one hand, and takes mine with her other, allowing me to help her out of the booth. Once she's standing, I reposition my grip on her elbow. These heels are so high, and I'm afraid she'll fall over or twist an ankle. She's not the most graceful woman in Portland… Let's just put it that way.

We walk back through the bar and up the stairs to a mezzanine floor. One of the workers approaches us. "Mr. Grey, this way, sir," he says.

I allow him to lead us through a lush sitting area, the chairs, couches all fully cushioned, in dark hues. I don't look at them long enough to make out what color they are. He takes us through a door, to a private dining room. A sumptuous chandelier hangs over a set table—white, starched tablecloth, crystal glasses, silver cutlery, and a white rose bouquet to top it all off, all just as I have asked.

The waiter pulls Anastasia's chair out for her. I sit down across, watching as he deposits her cloth napkin in her lap. Really, that's unnecessary. She can put her own napkin in her own damn lap. The waiter leaves, and she hasn't taken her eyes off the layout in front of us, and now she's biting her lip.

"Don't bite your lip," I murmur to her. She releases it, frowning.

"I've ordered already," I tell her, "I hope you don't mind."

"No, that's fine."

Her words please me, and I relax a token. "It's good to know that you can be amenable. Now, where were we?"

"The nitty-gritty," she tells me, and reaches for her wine glass, taking a rather large gulp. As she sets it down, she blushes.

"Yes, your issues," I murmur, and fish the email I've printed from my inner jacket pocket.

I read the first point silently:

_2: Not sure why this is solely for MY benefit—i.e., to explore MY sensuality and limits. I'm sure I wouldn't need a ten-page contract to do that! Surely this is for YOUR benefit._

"Clause 2. Agreed. This is for the benefit of us both," I amend, "I shall redraft."

She blinks at me, I think a little surprised that I'm jumping right into it. And suddenly, she looks a little shy. She has another drink of her wine. Yes, Miss Steele, keep drinking. She'll open up soon enough.

"My sexual health," I continue, "Well, all of my previous partners have had blood tests, and I have regular tests every six months for all the health risks you mention. All my recent tests are clear. I have never taken drugs. In fact, I'm vehemently antidrug. I have a strict no-tolerance policy with regards to drugs for all my employees, and I insist on random drug testing." Ha. What will she make of that?

She blinks at me once more, and I'm satisfied at the expression on her face. She's shocked.

"I have never had any blood transfusions. Does that answer your question?" She nods, slowly, giving nothing away. I lower my gaze back to the paper.

_8: I can terminate at any time if I don't think you're sticking to the agreed limits. Okay—I like this._

"Your next point I mentioned earlier. You can walk away any time, Anastasia. I won't stop you. If you go, however—that's it. Just so you know." As is the way every time I think of her leaving, pain flares, between each of my ribs.

"Okay." Her voice is soft, and she looks slightly troubled. Before I can read too much into her expression, the waiter interrupts.

I've no idea what I've ordered—I've done so in haste. He sets our first course down on the table in front of us—oysters on a bed of ice. Without speaking, the waiter steps out of the room, leaving us to our business. Ah, yes. Business. This certainly doesn't feel like a business meeting.

"I hope you like oysters," I tell Anastasia now.

"I've never had one," she says.

"Really? Well, all you do is tip and swallow. I think you can manage that." I pick one up and gaze at her, thinking of how well she swallows… Mmmm, I'd like to do that again sometime. I watch her face turn red, and I know she's thinking of the same thing I am.

I squirt some lemon juice on my oyster, place the edge of the shell on my lip, and tip my head back, swallowing the oyster down. "Hmm, delicious." I'm impressed. The oysters are delicious, and I'm starving. "Tastes of the sea." I grin at her. "Go on."

"So, I don't chew it?" she asks, obviously inexperienced.

"No, Anastasia, you don't." I'm strangely amused by this observation.

She bites down on her lower lip, and I'm suddenly overcome by lust, the monster snarling to life inside my abdomen, but mostly in my pants. She reaches for an oyster, squirts some lemon juice over it, and tips it into her mouth. She swallows. _Oh my fuck._ Who knew watching Anastasia eat could be so sexy? She licks her lips when she's finished, gazing at me. "Well?" I ask.

"I'll have another."

"Good girl." _Score!_

"Did you choose these deliberately?" she asks, reaching for another oyster, "Aren't they known for their aphrodisiac qualities?"

"No, they are the first item on the menu. I don't need an aphrodisiac near you." _Just look under the table… _"I think you know that, and I think you react the same way near me. So where were we?" I take another glance at the email.

_9: Obey you in all things? Accept without hesitation your discipline? We need to talk about this._

"Obey me in all things. Yes, I want you to do that. I need you to do that. Think of it as role-play, Anastasia."

"But I'm worried you'll hurt me," she admits, her voice small and meek.

Her words stir some type of emotion in me, though I can't put a name to it. It's heavy and oppressing. "Hurt you how?"

"Physically."

"Do you really think I would do that? Go beyond any limit you can't take?" The idea that she'd think this makes me mad, and the heavy, oppressing feeling gives way to this one. In a way, I'm grateful. Anger is a feeling I'm familiar with.

"You've said you've hurt someone before," she says now, and she's stopped eating.

"Yes, I have. It was a long time ago." _And I'm not proud of it._

"How did you hurt her?" she inquires.

I am strangely ashamed of this, and I don't know why, but I push forward and tell her anyway. "I suspended her from my playroom ceiling. In fact, that's one of your questions." I think back to her earlier inquiry. "Suspension—that's what the carabineers are for in the playroom. Rope play. One of the ropes was tied too tightly."

She seems all at once repulsed, her hands held in front of her, palms forward, and I stop. "I don't need to know anymore," she says, "So you won't suspend me then?"

_Oh, how I would love to suspend Anastasia Steele in my playroom…_ For a brief moment, I let myself picture it… "Not if you really don't want to. You can make that a hard limit."

"Okay," she says.

"So obeying—do you think you can manage that?" I ask her, bringing the both of us back to focus on the main point.

She doesn't speak at first, and I only stare at her. This is a very important question, and I need to hear her answer. "I could try," she finally whispers.

I think that's as close to a yes as I'm going to get. And it'll do. "Good. Now term," I continue, and skim the next line of her email.

_11: One-month trial period. Not three._

"One month instead of three is no time at all, especially if you want a weekend away from me each month. I don't think I'll be able to stay away from you for that length of time. I can barely manage it now." I clamp my jaw shut. Why have I spoken so freely? She wasn't supposed to hear that. I'm not sure even three months will be long enough, now that I think about it, but I'll keep that to myself for now.

"How about one day over one weekend per month you get to yourself—but I get a midweek night that week?"

"Okay," she acquiesces.

"And please, let's try it for three months," I'm very nearly begging, and it's so unlike me, "If it's not for you, then you can walk away anytime."

"Three months?" she asks, and she seems a little intimidated.

I watch her take another sip of wine, and slip another oyster down her throat. My cock twitches as she swallows. _Fuck, why am I so turned on by that?_ To distract myself, I scan another part of her email.

_15.2: Using my body as you see fit sexually or otherwise—please define "or otherwise."_

"The ownership thing, that's just terminology and goes back to the principle of obeying," I tell her, and I'm thankful my tone isn't giving me away. I'd like to fuck her on this table when we're finished. "It's to get you into the right frame of mind, to understand where I'm coming from. And I want you to know that as soon as you cross my threshold as my submissive, I will do what I like to you. You have to accept that and willingly. That's why you have to trust me." Fuck, I hope she's hearing this. She needs to hear what I'm saying. "I will fuck you, any time, any way I want—anywhere I want. I will discipline you, because you will screw up. I will train you to please me. But I know that you've not done this before. Initially, we'll take it slowly, and I will help you. We'll build up to various scenarios. I want you to trust me, but I know I have to earn your trust, and I will. The 'or otherwise'—again, it's to help you get into the mindset; it means anything goes."

She's staring blankly at me, and I can't tell what she's thinking. Why, at times, is she so open, and at others so closed off?

"Still with me?" I ask her and take a sip of wine.

The waiter comes and clears the table. "Would you like some more wine?" he asks her before he leaves.

"I have to drive," she says.

Suddenly, having her a little tipsy is no longer a concern. Her safety comes first. I'll find other ways to spur her honesty. I stay silent.

"Some water then?" She nods permissibly. "Still or sparkling?"

"Sparkling, please."

He nods and leaves to get her water. When he's gone, I stare at her a moment. She doesn't speak.

"You're very quiet."

"You're very verbose," she counters. My palm twitches at her tone. She won't be getting away with this any longer, pretty soon. At the same time, I can't suppress my grin and move on.

_15.5: This whole discipline clause. I'm not sure I want to be whipped, flogged, or corporally punished. I am sure this would be in breach of clauses 2-5. And also "for any other reason." That's just mean—and you told me you weren't a sadist._

"Discipline. There's a very fine line between pleasure and pain, Anastasia. They are two sides of the same coin, one not existing without the other. I can show you how pleasurable pain can be. You don't believe me now, but this is what I mean about trust. There will be pain, but nothing that you can't handle. Again, it comes down to trust. Do you trust me, Ana?"

"Yes, I do."

Relief, so intense floods my veins that it leaves me lightheaded. She trusts me! "Well, then. The rest of this stuff is just details."

"Important details," she pushes.

"Okay, let's talk through those." If they are important to her, I want to discuss them with her.

The waiter steps in again, and I'm getting slightly annoyed at the way he keeps popping up. He sets the plates in front of us and disappears. The main course is… more fish. Black cod, asparagus, and crushed potatoes with a hollandaise sauce. It looks delicious, and my mouth is starting to water. I take a bite, and watch Ana try some of hers. She takes a large chug of water.

"The rules. Let's talk about them. The food is a deal breaker?" I ask her.

"Yes." Her answer is vehement.

"Can I modify to say that you will eat at least three meals a day?" That's reasonable. That's what normal people eat.

"No." Her tone is equally as emphatic. She is so stubborn about this. Why?

I feel my lips purse in frustration. "I need to know that you're not hungry." I can't have her weak or passing out on me.

She frowns and throws my former words back in my face: "You'll have to trust me."

It throws me off, and I can only gaze at her wordlessly for a moment. "Touché, Miss Steele. I concede the food and the sleep."

"Why can't I look at you?" she demands.

"That's a Dom/sub thing. You'll get used to it."

"Why can't I touch you?" She's firing these questions rapid bullet point at me now.

"Because you can't." _Fuck._ Will she let it go?

"Is it because of Mrs. Robinson?" she asks me, and she sounds angry and confused.

"Why would you think that?" I ask her, completely bemused. In the same sweep of recognition, though, I understand. "You think she traumatized me?" Anastasia nods. Elena was one of the best things that happened to me. I don't know where I'd be if she hadn't stepped into my life. "No, Anastasia," I say, "She's not the reason. Besides, Mrs. Robinson wouldn't take any of that shit from me."

Her bottom lip sticks out, and I almost believe she's pouting. It looks girlish and cute and hot. "So nothing to do with her."

"No. And I don't want you touching yourself, either." Same use of words, totally different meaning, but whatever. She'll get it.

"Out of curiosity… why?" she asks me.

"Because I want all of your pleasure." And my mood darkens deliciously at the thought. I've already had all of her; I want the rest of it, too.

She seems lost in thought, taking another bite of her fish, chewing slowly, and I can see her mulling it all over.

"I've given you a great deal to think about, haven't I?" I ask her.

"Yes," she admits.

"Do you want to go through the soft limits now, too?" I ask her.

"Not over dinner."

Her answer amuses me and I smirk. "Squeamish?" I tease her.

"Something like that."

"You've not eaten very much," I scold her.

"I've had enough," she assures me.

"Three oysters, four bites of cod, and one asparagus, no potatoes, no nuts, no olives, and you've not eaten all day. You said I could trust you."

"Christian, please, it's not every day I sit through conversations like this," she begs.

"I need you fit and healthy, Anastasia," I push.

"I know," she tells me.

"And right now, I want to peel you out of that dress." I watch her swallow as her cheeks warm, so subtly I'm not sure she notices.

"I don't think that's a good idea," she says, "We haven't had dessert."

"You want dessert?" I don't believe it.

"Yes."

"You could be dessert," I tease.

She blushes darker. "I'm not sure I'm sweet enough," she says as an excuse.

"Anastasia, you're deliciously sweet. I know." And I'd love to taste her, right now.

"Christian, you use sex as a weapon. It really isn't fair." She's been staring down at her hands, but now she looks up, directly into my eyes.

Sex as a weapon? The thought never occurred to me, and I register the surprise in my expression. I stroke my chin as I mull over her words. "You're right," I finally concede, "I do. In life you use what you know, Anastasia. Doesn't change how much I want you. Here. Now."

Her lips part as he breathing quickens, and I know I'm affecting her. I need only read her body to know that. The tablecloth shifts just slightly, and I know she's pressing her thighs together underneath the table.

"I'd like to try something," I whisper, her reactions stirring the lust deep in my own body. "If you were my sub, you wouldn't have to think about this. It would be easy. All those decisions—all the wearying thought processes behind them. The 'is this the right thing to do? Should this happen here? Can it happen now?' You wouldn't have to worry about any of that detail. That's what I'd do as your Dom. And right now, I know you want me, Anastasia."

She frowns. Is it because I've caught her?

"I can tell because your body gives you away. You're pressing your thighs together, you're flushed, and your breathing has changed."

"How do you know about my thighs?"

"I felt the tablecloth move, and it's a calculated guess based on years of experience. I'm right, aren't I?"

In answer, she flushes further and stares down at her hands. "I haven't finished my cod."

"You'd prefer cold cod to me?" Right now, I could really care less about whether she eats or not. She can always eat afterwards. I want to fuck her on this table. Now. Hard.

She suddenly jerks her head up, and she's glaring at me. Christ, that's kind of hot. "I thought you liked me to clear my plate," she argues.

"Right now, Miss Steele, I couldn't give a fuck about your food."

"Christian. You just don't fight fair."

"I know. I never have."

She seems to contemplate something, momentarily, and then reaches for her plate, plucking up a stalk of cold asparagus. I know it's on purpose, because she's staring boldly into my eyes while she does it, and she bites her lip, then slips the stalk of asparagus into her mouth, and sucks the end of it. Shit. My cock stirs in my pants at the memory of her mouth on me. That is so hot…

"Anastasia. What are you doing?"

She bites off the head. "Eating my asparagus."

Her voice is so full of lust. I know she's playing me, and I have to shift in my seat. "I think you're toying with me, Miss Steele."

"I'm just finishing my food, Mr. Grey." Oh my fuck, she has the face to act naïve.

The waiter comes back, entering the dining room on his own accord and picks up our plates.

"Would you like some dessert?" I ask her before the waiter leaves. Hmm… Maybe we could do something with that… The bigger part of me is hoping she'll say no, so I can get around to fucking her now.

"No thank you," she says, quiet, gaze down, "I think I should go."

_Go?! _"Go?" She's leaving? I barely notice the waiter leave. She's saying no. She's-she's going? I'm so surprised I can't hide its evidence on my face or in my tone.

"Yes," she mumbles, "We both have the graduation ceremony tomorrow." She stands, smoothing the wrinkles in her dress.

On autopilot, I stand with her, though my legs are like jelly, due to the shock of it all. She's leaving, in the middle of my seducing her? "I don't want you to go," I tell her. I've not meant to say the words out loud. Why do I get this tearing, heavy feeling in my chest each time she leaves? And she still hasn't fucking said 'yes'!

"Please… I have to," she insists.

"Why?" I demand. _Please, don't go, Ana. Not yet._

"Because you've given me so much to consider," she explains, "And I need some distance."

"I could make you stay." I could.

"Yes," she agrees, "you could easily, but I don't want you to."

Sighing, I run a hand through my hair, almost unconsciously. It's almost through by the time I notice I'm doing it. "You know," I start, "When you fell into my office to interview me, you were all 'yes, sir' 'no, sir.' I thought you were a natural-born submissive. But quite frankly, Anastasia, I'm not sure you have a submissive bone in your delectable body." A body I'd like to kiss every part of. A body I'd love to gaze at again. A body I'd like to peel out of that dress.

"You may be right," she whispers.

"I want the chance to explore the possibility you do." I'm moving toward her, staring down into those blue, blue eyes. On its own accord, my hand comes up, caressing her face and that delicious bottom lip. "I don't know any other way, Anastasia. This is who I am." Suddenly, I'm being so honest. I want this woman. Badly. But I only want her my way, on my terms, because that's the only way I know. I don't know if I could do things any differently, if she asked.

"I know," she whispers.

I lean down, my intention to kiss her, but I stop myself only inches away from her face. I give her a chance to turn away, to deny my advances, but she tilts her face up, receiving me. As I press my lips to hers, her response is nearly instant. She twists her fingers in my hair, tugging gently—Jesus, that feels good—pulling my body flush to hers. I'm surprised at her eagerness for only a moment, and then I'm returning the passion with equal fervor. I grasp the nape of her neck, and press my other hand to the base of her spine pulling her, impossibly closer. Oh, I want to fuck her so badly…

"I can't persuade you to stay?" I ask her between kisses.

"No," she replies, and there's a token of disappointment in her voice. I wonder at it. If she doesn't want to leave, then why is she forcing herself to?

"Spend the night with me," I beg.

"And not touch you? No."

I groan at her words. That is the one thing I will never give on. She will never touch me. I can't let her. "You impossible girl." I force myself to pull back from the kiss, and gaze down into her eyes, intensified and darkened by the lust which emanates from her. "Why do I think you're telling me goodbye?"

"Because I'm leaving now."

But she doesn't catch on. Why do I have the feeling she's thrown everything into this kiss, because it's the last time she'll ever see me? Is she going to say no?

"That's not what I mean, and you know it."

"Christian," she beseeches me, "I have to think about this. I don't know if I can have the kind of relationship you want."

I let my eyes flutter shut, and I press my forehead against hers. Her words cut me to the core. She doesn't know if she can… But I want her, I _need_ her. More than I've ever needed anything else in my entire life. Against everything inside me, I kiss her forehead and pull back, releasing her. Her scent fades, and I'm in my own space again. "As you wish, Miss Steele. I'll escort you to the lobby."

I proffer her my hand, and after collecting her purse, she takes it. We walk in silence down the stairs. My stomach is churning, my heart pounding. This can't be it. What can I do to make her stay, to make her say yes?

"Do you have your valet ticket?" I ask her once we've reached the lobby, trying to ignore the pain inside of me. It feels as if all my organs are bunching and knotting together. It's not a good feeling at all. Please, Ana, don't go… Please say yes. Please don't leave me. I don't know what I'll do if this is the last time we're together.

"Thank you for dinner," she says to me once she's pulled her ticket from her purse and I've handed it to the doorman.

"It's a pleasure as always, Miss Steele." I force myself to sound polite, but inside I'm a wreck. Why am I reacting this way? It hasn't worked out other times, with other women, and that was that. We said goodbye and they went on their way. Why is it so different this time? What is it about Anastasia Steele that I can't let go of? Something in my mind is suddenly blocking out the possibility, grasping at straws, wracking my brain. There has to be something I can do to ensure I see her again. Tomorrow won't count. I realize that she moves to Seattle this weekend, and I turn suddenly to peer at her. I find her already watching me, and some foreign emotion has surfaced in her eyes. Something deep, far too deep for me to fathom.

"You're moving this weekend to Seattle. If you make the right decision—" _For me or for her? _"—can I see you on Sunday?" She's going to say no. I'm such a fucking idiot. Why did I even ask?

"We'll see. Maybe," she whispers, and relief floods my chest, chasing away the pain for just a moment. She hasn't said no.

My gaze falls to her arms, and I realize they're bare. "It's cooler now, don't you have a jacket?"

"No," she says.

I shake my head, galled. I slip my jacket over my shoulders and hold it open for her. "Here. I don't want you catching cold."

She blinks up at me for a moment, but recovers quickly, and slips her arms through the armholes. I slip the coat up onto her shoulders, letting my hands linger there for just a moment.

Her car pulls up, and my hands drop, as well as my jaw. _That_ is what Anastasia Steele drives? The thing is a hundred years old, beaten, and worn. How the fuck did she even make it here? It looks like it's going to fall apart at any moment.

"That's what you drive?" And I can't hide the shock. I lead her outside. The valet jumps out and hands her the keys, and I slip him a ten-dollar bill. "Is this roadworthy?" I ask, turning my attention back to her.

"Yes." She sounds offended.

"Will it make it to Seattle?"

"Yes. She will."

I highly, _highly_ doubt that. "Safely?"

"Yes," she barks now, irritated. "Okay, she's old. But she's mine, and she's roadworthy. My stepdad bought it for me."

"Oh, Anastasia, I think we can do better than this." She hasn't said yes, yet, but I'll buy her the Audi anyway. I'll make the call tonight, or early tomorrow, once they're open.

"What do you mean? You are _not_ buying me a car," she cries, catching on at once.

_Just try and stop me, Miss Steele._ "We'll see."

Everything inside me is telling me not to, but I open her door for her anyway, and help her in. She slips her shoes off and rolls down the window. I don't take my eyes off her, knowing that I've said all I can. I have to wait for her decision, but it doesn't sit well with me. She's going to say no, I know it.

"Drive safe," I murmur.

"Goodbye, Christian," she says, starting the engine, then flicks a small smile in my direction.

I watch her as she drives away, pauses at the driveway, and turns out onto the street. Unbelievable rage, unbidden and powerful, fills me. I turn and smack a nearby pillar with the palm of my hand. The pain radiates halfway up my arm, but I ignore it.

"Sir?" The doorman asks, "Are you okay?"

I don't answer him, seething as I push back into the building and up to my room. I pace back and forth for a while, running my hands through my hair until my scalp tingles. She can't do this. She can't say no. I need to make her mine, she needs to say 'yes'. I'll be lost if she doesn't.

At this point, I'm almost willing to do anything, in order to make her say yes.

.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Tonight

**Date: **May 25 2011 22:01

**To: **Anastasia Steele

I don't understand why you ran this evening. I sincerely hope I answered all your questions to your satisfaction. I know I have given you a great deal to contemplate, and I fervently hope that you will give my proposal your serious consideration. I really want to make this work. We will take it slow.

Trust me.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…


	15. Chapter 15

_**Hi, everyone! So sorry for the delay. My beta has come down with something, so there's been a pause. Please send her well wishes! To all the readers out there who are worried I'm going to stop—please don't worry. I have no intentions of ending this fanfic. I have the next three chapters written out already; there just awaiting beta'ing. I fully intend to write the entirety of Fifty Shades of Grey from Christian's POV. Once I've finished with this book, I'll see if I want to continue with the rest of the series. I imagine I will, but I'm not making any promises.**_

_**I think I'm finally getting in the swing of things, and capturing Christian's POV, and so this is really starting to get fun.**_

_**Thanks for all your lovely reviews—they inspire me so, and as they are fed to me, they urge me to write faster ;) **_

_**Happy reading, and wishing everyone a Happy Easter Weekend!**_

_**.**_

_Thursday, May 26 2011, Early Morning_

"No!" I shout, jolting awake. The room is dark, the curtains drawn. I blink unseeingly into the dark.

My heart is thrumming in my chest too quickly, my breathing too rapid. I lay flat on my back, waiting for both to calm.

When they finally do, I try to make sense of the nightmare I've just woken from. It wasn't the usual dream—something totally different.

Full of blue eyes and words and kisses holding more promise than they should.

I exhale slowly, and then my heart rate spikes again. I'm out of bed in an instant and crossing the suite to my computer. I've fallen asleep without hearing back from Anastasia after my second email, and I can't believe I've allowed this.

Opening my inbox, I run my hand through my hair.

Nothing in response, and I open my sent mail, making sure it's gone through.

It has.

I read it over once more, realizing how desperate I sound…

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Tonight

**Date: **May 25 2011 23:58

**To: **Anastasia Steele

.

I hope you made it home in that car of yours.

Let me know if you're okay.

.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

.

It hasn't been an hour since I sent the email and fell asleep. There's still no reply, and suddenly I'm insane with concern.

I picture her in all sorts of awful predicaments with that fucking deathtrap of a car.

I pick up my phone and send her a text.

*Are you home safe?*

I wait… and wait… and wait some more. I'm getting tired again.

A half an hour passes, and she hasn't replied.

I have half a mind to send Taylor out to make sure she's arrived home safely.

Finally, I give it up, and go back to sleep.

.

I've woken two more times in the night, and I still haven't heard from Anastasia by the time morning comes.

I check both my email inbox and my Blackberry, but I've received no mail from her on either.

Before I even think about dealing with anything from work, before I need to leave for the graduation ceremony, I call her.

Her phone goes straight to voice mail.

_Fuck!_

I hang up, knowing that I wouldn't be able to leave a composed voice message if I tried.

*Call me*

I leave it at that, and sit down to drink my coffee.

My stomach is churning, but I force down my omelet anyway.

I answer a few emails and a couple calls, forcing the concern about Anastasia from my mind.

Before I know it, it's time to dress, and I do so meticulously.

_You'll see her there,_ I remind myself as I knot my tie—the tie I've tied Anastasia up in not once, but twice.

Taylor knocks rapidly on my door. I pull it open.

"Ready to go, sir?" he asks.

"Yes," I tell him.

.

Traffic is heavy, and I don't arrive as early as I'd hoped.

When I arrive backstage, I see Miss Kavanagh talking with the other board members.

I touch her on the shoulder, and she turns toward me.

"Christian," she says, surprised.

"Did Anastasia get home safely last night?" I ask, aware I sound a little short. I rake my fingers through my hair.

"Um, yeah—she made it fine. Why do you ask?"

I shake my head at her. The fifty pound weight I hadn't realized I'd been holding on my shoulders lifts. She's safe. She's fine.

Out front, I can hear the auditorium filling. Someone asks me how I'm doing.

"Fine," I mutter.

The coordinator, a little thing all dressed in black, comes over and tells us the ceremony is about to start. We all get into position.

I am the last one on stage.

The lights are bright, and the students are a sea of black and red. I don't scan the faces for Anastasia's. Suddenly I'm nervous—really nervous. Why?

I sit, undoing the button on my jacket as I do so.

If I know Anastasia even a little bit, I know she'll be watching me, and despite the anxiety I'm feeling, I know the glimpse of this oh-so-familiar tie will tease her; and I'm all about teasing… Oh, I'm angry with her. I'd like to spank her ass nice and hard after that stunt she pulled last night. I've been worried sick about her.

The applause the audience has welcomed us with ceases, and everyone sits.

There's a beat of silence, and the proceedings begin.

The chancellor steps up to the podium and begins his speech.

To be honest, the whole affair is very boring—but I'd be even more bored if this weren't Anastasia's graduation.

To distract myself, I think about the Audi that's being delivered today. I know she's going to be surprised, probably a little bit mad, but I'm excited nonetheless. I'll drive it over to her apartment this evening.

I can't help it—now that we've settled into things, I roam the audience, searching for her familiar face. It doesn't take me long. My gaze falls on hers a moment later. She's slightly hunched in her seat, and she's already been staring at me. She looks shy. As my eyes linger on hers, that inevitable slow bush fills her cheeks, and the bridge of her nose. I can barely suppress my smile.

Anastasia makes a cap and gown look good. She looks beautiful.

All at once, I'm reminded of the way she defied me last night. A sudden realization occurs—maybe she's going to say no; maybe this is why she's ignoring me.

I close my eyes briefly to compose myself—I can't think about all of this right now—and glance toward the chancellor, who's nearing the end of his speech.

I fix my gaze across the auditorium, on the WSUV emblem above the entrance, and I don't look at Anastasia again, for the rest of the ceremony. She's just too distracting.

Finally, Keith finishes his speech and welcomes Miss Kavanagh to the podium. The gymnasium erupts into applause as she stands and makes her way across the stage, and I bring my hands together automatically.

She takes a moment, tossing her hair over her shoulders, arranging her papers in front of her.

For a twenty-two year old, she is so confident and sure of herself.

She surges into her speech, no stuttering, no pausing, not even a blush. She cracks just the right amount of jokes, eliciting laughter from the audience every time. Despite the humor, she manages to still hold a tone of sobriety through the entirety of her "What Next After College?" themed speech.

She finishes and is applauded enthusiastically, the entire audience rising to their feet.

Miss Kavanagh takes her seat, as well as the rest of the audience.

Keith rises and approaches the podium again.

"And now I'd like to introduce one of our main humanitarians. At the young age of twenty-seven, he's the CEO of his own extraordinarily successful company, Grey Enterprises Holdings Incorporated. He's made quite a life for himself, is very successful, and also a major benefactor to our university. Please welcome Mr. Christian Grey."

I rise and step up to where Keith stands, shaking his hand. There's a round of polite approbation, and I take my place at the lectern. I scan the hall, making sure to not look over to where Anastasia sits. I'll choke for sure.

"I'm profoundly grateful and touched by the great compliment accorded to me by the authorities of WSU today," I begin, and I'm relieved that my voice sounds as measured as it does. "It offers me a rare opportunity to talk about the impressive work of the environmental science department here at the university. Our aim is to develop viable and ecologically sustainable methods of farming for third world countries; our ultimate goal is to help eradicate hunger and poverty across the globe. Over a billion people, mainly in sub-Saharan Africa, South Asia, and Latin America, live in abject poverty. Agricultural dysfunction is rife within these parts of the world, and the result is ecological and social destruction. I have known what it's like to be profoundly hungry. This is a very personal journey for me, and I hope to make it personal for many of the people working with me on this project. Please, do your part to help someone in need."

I finish my speech, welcoming the round of applause, and smile briefly, politely. I take my seat, and we begin the long, tedious process of awarding the degrees.

It's over an hour of shaking boys' and girls' hands before Anastasia steps onto the stage. My heart flutters nervously at the sight of her. This is a big moment for her, and though I haven't been here through most of it, I'm proud of her.

"Congratulations, Miss Steele," I tell her, taking her hand in mine. I squeeze it gently. Her skin is so soft, and as we touch, a shock goes through me. It surprises me. "Do you have a problem with your laptop?"

She frowns as she takes her degree from me. "No."

"Then you _are_ ignoring my emails?" I ask her, and I brace myself for her 'no'. This is it, it'll all end now…

"I only saw the mergers and acquisitions one," she tells me.

Abruptly, I'm confused. I want to investigate further, but we're holding the line up. We don't have time for this now.

"Later," I tell her.

She goes back to her seat, and I'm left stewing. No answers, nothing. I need to speak with her as soon as this is finished.

Another hour passes before all of the degrees are handed out, and I'm dying of boredom. This is the most awful event I've ever had to sit through, and with everything that's been going with Anastasia, it makes it a whole lot worse.

Finally the proceedings are over, and I follow everyone else backstage.

Their voices are loud, boisterous and excited.

Katherine is speaking with one of the professors—he looks like he just rolled out of bed—but I approach her anyway.

"Miss Kavanagh," I say to her and she turns to me, still smiling at something the professor has just said. Her smile fades when she sees it me.

"Yes, Christian?" Her tone is stiff and formal.

"Please fetch Anastasia for me. I need to speak with her. It's urgent."

"Uh…" she pauses, glancing back at the tired professor, and then back at me again. "Sure…" She sounds suspicious, but she goes anyway.

"Tell us more about the project you're working on with the university, Mr. Grey," one of them suggests.

I turn my attention to them, launching into a short explanation.

Katherine returns, and Anastasia is behind her. She looks radiant and flushed, from the excitement of the day.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," I mutter to my company. I turn away from the men and go to Anastasia. I flash a brief smile at Katherine.

"Thank you," I tell her, and I take Anastasia's elbow. Her skin is warm against mine. I steer her into a nearby room, a locker room by the looks of it, and lock the door behind us.

"Why haven't you emailed me? Or texted me back?" Abruptly, I'm very angry, in a way I hadn't realized the entire course of the graduation ceremony. I'm not sure where it's coming from.

"I haven't looked at my computer today, or my phone. That was a great speech."

"Thank you," I reply shortly.

"Explains your food issues to me."

I rake my fingers through my hair. "Anastasia, I don't want to go there at the moment." I close my eyes, all at once pained, thinking of all of the things that could have gone wrong with Anastasia and her car last night. "I've been worried about you."

"Worried, why?" she asks. She really doesn't get it.

"Because you went home in that deathtrap of a car," I say, way beyond exasperated.

"What? It's not a deathtrap. It's fine. Jose regularly services it for me."

_Jose?! Fucking Jose?! _Why would she bring that up right now?! That's the last thing I need.

"Jose, the photographer?" I ask her, and I can feel the heat in my tone, but fuck it—I'm angry.

"Yes, the Beetle used to belong to his mother," she tells me, obviously defensive. The emotion sparks in her eyes.

"Yes, and probably her mother and her mother before her. It's not safe." I've never been looking forward to gifting a woman a car more.

"I've been driving it for over three years," she argues, "I'm sorry you were worried. Why didn't you call?"

I take a deep breath. I don't know—maybe because I would have fallen apart at the sound of her voice? Or unable to stay away, it would have just been one more thing to lure me to her.

"Anastasia, I need an answer from you," I demand, "This waiting around is driving me crazy."

"Christian, I…" She pauses, her gaze falling to her hands, which she holds out in front of her. "Look, I've left my stepdad on his own."

"Tomorrow. I want an answer by tomorrow," I command her.

"Okay," she acquiesces, "Tomorrow, I'll tell you then."

I step back and regard her, a tad more relaxed now that I know I'll have an answer by tomorrow. That's only twenty four hours away.

"Are you staying for drinks?" I ask her. She can't leave yet. I haven't seen her for very long at all.

"I don't know what Ray wants to do."

"Your stepfather? I'd like to meet him." _Why the hell not?_

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," she mumbles after a moment.

"Are you ashamed of me?" I ask her as I unlock the locker room door. I can't say it wouldn't make sense if she was.

"No!" she cries and then continues, "Introduce you to my dad as what? 'This is the man who deflowered me and wants us to start a BDSM relationship'? You're not wearing running shoes."

I glower at her, really trying to keep angry at her, but this woman has a way of bringing out the humor at just the wrong time, and I can't fight the smile that forces its way onto my face. Her answering grin is magnificent.

"Just so you know, I can run quite fast," I joke. "Just tell him I'm your friend, Anastasia."

I hold the door open for her, and she steps out into the corridor ahead of me.

.

When Katherine and I find Anastasia a few minutes later, in the marquee, she's deep in conversation with some boy, who has his arm wrapped around her waist.

Anger hardens my gut into ice.

Katherine greets Anastasia's father, kissing him on the cheek. "Have you met Ana's boyfriend? Christian Grey," she says, and her words stop me cold.

Boyfriend? Oh, no. That's not what I am at all.

I see Anastasia pale at Katherine's words.

I recover before her. I can put on this act. I can do this. Besides, maybe it'll steer the boy—who's absolutely clinging to her—away.

"Mr. Steele, it's a pleasure to meet you." I realize that it is. It's nice to see where Anastasia came from, to meet the man who raised her through her teenage years. I give all the credit in the world to this man. I hold my hand out, and Ray takes it, shaking it firmly.

"Mr. Grey," he returns, and his expression is absolutely impassive, though I think I might see a bit of surprise in his eyes. I watch as he shifts his gaze over to Anastasia, who is still standing with that boy, and now bites down on her lip.

_Shit._

"And this is my brother, Ethan Kavanagh," Katherine introduces me to the boy who still has his arm around my girl.

_Get your fucking hands off her! _I want to snap. _She's mine, all mine!_

I force myself to greet him, though I know my gaze is still frosty.

With his free hand, he shakes my hand, and I nearly combust with rage.

Shaking my hand, while manhandling my girl, all at the same time. How fucking dare he?!

"Ana, baby," I murmur, and my endearment does the job. She comes to me, and I can't help grinning at Mr. Kavanagh. Ha.

"Ethan, Mom and Dad wanted a word," Miss Kavanagh tells the boy, and mercifully, they leave.

"So how long have you kids known each other?" Ray fishes.

I wait for Ana to speak, glancing over at her, but she looks like she's seen a ghost. I wrap my arm around her, skimming my thumb across the silken expanse of skin the back her dress exposes, urging her.

Christ, she looks amazing in this dress.

I reach up to clasp her shoulder, deciding she's not going to answer.

"Couple of weeks or so now," I answer, taking the reigns, "We met when Anastasia came to interview me for the student newspaper."

"Didn't know you worked on the student newspaper, Ana," Ray says to her, and I don't miss the admonishment in it.

"Kate was ill," she barely whispers in return.

"Fine speech you gave, Mr. Grey," Ray congratulates me.

"Thank you, sir. I understand that you're a keen fisherman." I'd really like to get to know more about this man. Despite what Ana told me when we went for coffee nearly two weeks ago. I know there's more to him than that.

Mr. Steele lifts his eyebrows, clearly surprised by my knowledge, and grins.

"I am, Mr. Grey. I try to make it out whenever I can, usually every other weekend or so."

"Please, call me Christian."

"Christian. Do you have any interest in fishing?"

Ana slips away, and I turn my full attention to Mr. Steele.

"I find it very soothing. I make it out when I can—I own a place in Aspen that hosts a wonderful fishing spot. I definitely don't make it out twice a month, however."

"Aspen," Ray says, and he seems impressed.

"I wanted to talk with you about something, regarding Ana's car, Mr. Steele."

"Call me Ray, Christian," he says.

I nod. "Ray—I'd like to buy Ana a new car, for her safety. But I, in no way, want to overstep your bounds. I understand you bought the car for Ana?"

"I did, but that was some time ago. That car is getting pretty old," he agrees.

"Yes." I launch into an explanation of the many safety features the Audi A4 has, and Ray seems impressed. "Women could use all those features," I joke, "They're not the best of drivers."

Ray laughs. "Ana barely passed her driving test," he says conspiratorially.

I laugh, lifting my eyebrows in surprise. Really. That is news to me.

Anastasia steps back into the conversation, and I have to hide my smile. I don't know why, but the knowledge that she barely passed her driving test amuses me.

"Ana, where are the restrooms?" Ray asks her.

"Back out front of the marquee and to the left," she answers him.

"See you in a moment. You kids enjoy yourselves."

And Ray is gone.

Ana glances nervously at me. A photographer approaches, and snaps a quick photo of us together.

"Thank you, Mr. Grey," the photographer thanks me, and hurries off.

I realize that I've never had my photo taken with a woman before. Another first.

"So you've charmed my father as well?" she asks me.

"As well?" _I've charmed you, Miss Steele?_

Her cheeks go pink, and I lift my hand to run my fingers along the heated skin there.

"Oh, I wish I knew what you were thinking, Anastasia," I whisper, lust overcoming me. I cup her chin in my fingers and tilt her head back so I can get a better look at that gorgeous face of hers. Her eyes are wide, and cornflower blue. I've never seen eyes so beautiful.

Those full, pouty lips part, and I hear her breath spike.

"Right now, I'm thinking, _Nice tie_." She exhales the words.

I laugh lowly. "It's recently become my favorite."

She turns bright red.

"You look lovely, Anastasia. This halter-neck dress suits you, and I get to stroke your back, feel your skin."

I can feel the atmosphere of the room change, the air thickening, growing hotter, and there's an almost electrical charge running between us. Oh, it's been too long. I'd like to have her naked and underneath me again…

She needs to say 'yes'. Please, please say 'yes', Ana…

"You know it's going to be good, don't you, baby?" I breathe.

She closes her eyes as my words hit her.

"But I want more."

"More?" Abruptly, I'm thinking back to the hike and conversation I had with Elliot only a week after we'd met. More. As in, romanticism, dinner and a movie, dates, and making love…

"More," I whisper again, and I trace her lower lip with my thumb. Depression crashes over me at the realization. Will I ever be able to give her more? "You want hearts and flowers."

She nods.

I know fucking, and whips and chains. I don't know hearts and flowers. I don't know how to make love. But I want Anastasia, badly.

"Anastasia, it's not something I know…"

"Me, either."

A small, humorless smile lifts the corners of my lips. "You don't know much."

"You know all the wrong things," she counters.

"Wrong? Not me," I argue, shaking my head. It's only what I know. It's what makes me happy, brings me pleasure. What's the wrong in that? "Try it," I beg her, my voice barely a whisper, and I'm begging her now, though I try and make the words sound challenging. If there's anything I've learned about Ana so far, it's that she loves a challenge.

I tilt my head to the side, grinning at her.

_Please, baby…_

"Okay."

"What?" Every nerve ending in my body has come to attention. What has she just said? Everyone around us disappears, and we are the only people in the world—it feels.

She swallows. "Okay. I'll try."

For all the waiting I've done, you'd think I'd take her for her word. But I just don't believe her right now. "You're agreeing?"

"Subject to the soft limits, yes," she murmurs lowly, "I'll try."

Joy explodes inside me, and I'm so overwhelmed, that I have to shut my eyes against it. Just when I'd thought she'd say no, that all was over between us, she says yes. Yes! I can hardly breathe at the greatness of it all. I don't know if I've ever been this happy before.

"Jesus, Ana," I say, and pull her to me, "You're so unexpected. You take my breath away."

Over her shoulder, I see Ray returning, and I step back, away from our embrace. All I want to do is take her home and fuck her now, tie her up in my playroom and really have a go at her. But—oh yes—she has company. She hasn't come with me; she's with her father. And she hasn't signed yet.

"Annie, should we get some lunch?" he asks her.

"Okay." She's blinking spasmodically at her father, a little off, I think. She looks partially dazed.

"Would you like to join us, Christian?" Mr. Steele asks, turning his attention to me.

I'm about to agree when Ana turns to me, her expression just begging me to say no. It's one of the rare times I'm able to read her thoughts so clearly. Oh. She doesn't want me to come. The realization stings.

"Thank you, Mr. Steele, but I have plans," I lie, "It's been great to meet you, sir."

"Likewise," Ray says, "Look after my baby girl."

"Oh, I fully intend to." He has no idea… And underneath all the lust, there's a small glimmer of awareness. I want to take care of her in other ways, too. I want to keep her safe and happy and warm, and fed.

Ray shakes my hand.

I turn and take Anastasia's fingers in mine, planting a soft kiss on the back of her knuckles.

"Later, Miss Steele," I whisper to her. I'll see her later tonight. I can't wait. She's finally mine, all mine, and I can do anything I want.

Now, Ray takes her elbow, and leads her away. She doesn't look back.

.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Soft Limits

**Date: **May 26 2011 17:22

**To: **Anastasia Steele

What can I say that I haven't already?

Happy to talk these through anytime.

You looked beautiful today.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…


	16. Chapter 16

_Thursday, May 26 2011 – Dusk_

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Soft Limits

**Date: **May 26 2011 19:23

**To: **Christian Grey

I can come over this evening to discuss if you'd like.

Ana

…

I receive the email just after seven o' clock. I'm finishing up my dinner, ravenous, on a high, after the events of today. I read over the words of her email, and furrow my brow. There's no way I'm letting her drive that car to see me. Besides, I have to deliver the Audi.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Soft Limits

**Date: **May 26 2011 19:27

**To: **Anastasia Steele

I'll come to you. I meant it when I said I wasn't happy about you driving that car. I'll be with you shortly.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

I pull on my leather jacket. On my way out, I dial Taylor.

"Something you need, sir?"

"Yes, I'll need you to pick me up from Miss Steele's apartment at nine. I'm taking the Audi to her."

"Yes, sir."

.

For some strange reason that I can't identify, I'm nervous as I pull up in front of Anastasia's complex. There's a bottle of Bollinger on the passenger seat, and I pick it up as I extract myself from the car. I'm well aware that my intention is to ply her with alcohol again—in the guise of celebration—but I'm going to need her to be honest with me about the soft limits, and alcohol makes her brave. I head up the walkway, to her front porch. The lights are on, spilling out onto the grass. I step up to the door and knock. A moment later, she pulls it open, appraising me shyly. She's still wearing her dress from graduation, and I'm glad. She looks amazing in it, and I want to peel her out of it—after the negotiations, of course.

"Hi," she murmurs, reticent.

"Hi," I tell her, and because she's so radiant, and I'm so happy to see her, I let my lips pull up into a smile.

She stares at me for a moment, a little taken I think—does she like what she sees?—and then invites me in.

"If I may." I step inside, holding up the bottle of champagne. "I thought we'd celebrate your graduation."—_Not to mention your agreeing to be my submissive—_"Nothing beats a good Bollinger."

"Interesting choice of words," she states, and I detect sarcasm in her tone. Oh, Miss Steele, you and your smart mouth.

I grin at her. "Oh, I like your ready wit, Anastasia."

"We only have teacups. We've packed all the glasses," she tells me.

"Teacups? Sounds good to me."

She leaves me in the living room, heading into the kitchen. I take a moment to gaze around the room, sparsely furnished, but this is probably only because they're moving in two days. On the bookshelf, I spot a package, strangely familiar, and go to it. I know it's addressed to me from the quote Anastasia has written on the front:

"_I agree to the conditions, Angel; because you know best what my punishment ought to be; only—only—don't make it more than I can bear!"_

"Do you want saucers as well?" she calls from the other room.

"Teacups will be fine, Anastasia," I call back, reading over the quote once more. I thought we'd agreed that I was d'Urberville, _not _Angel. I hear, rather than see her walk back in. For some reason, I can't take my eyes off the parcel. I'm mad—really mad. She means to give these back to me? After I've bought them for her out of… What? Kindness? Shame? Guilt?

"That's for you," she mumbles, and I can hear the current of anxiety in her voice. She has a right to be nervous. She should be.

"Hmm, I figured as much," I say, and trail my index finger lazily over her handwriting. "Apt quote. I thought I was d'Urberville, not Angel. You decided on the debasement." I give her an impish grin. "Trust you to find something that resonates so appropriately." I'm grappling to keep my mood light. She needs to be able to trust me right now, and not feel wary.

"It's also a plea," she breathes, not looking at me.

"A plea?" I glance between her and the package. "For me to go easy on you?"

She bobs her head, silent.

I take a breath. "I bought these for you," Now she's looking at me, "I'll go easier on you if you accept them." All I want to do right now is give her a good hiding. She's constantly defying me, and now that she's truly mine, I can put a stop to it.

I watch her swallow. "Christian, I can't accept them," she's almost beseeching me. "They're just too much."

"You see, this is what I was talking about, you defying me. I want you to have them, and that's the end of the discussion. It's very simple. You don't have to think about this. As a submissive you would just be grateful for them. You just accept what I buy you because it pleases me for you to do so." _And currently, I am not pleased by her reactions…_

"I wasn't a submissive when you bought them for me," she argues, her voice still barely a breath.

"No… but you've agreed, Anastasia." Abruptly, I'm uneasy. Is she going to back out? She really has no reason not to…

She sighs. "So they are mine to do with as I wish?" she asks.

Now I'm suspicious. What does she have in mind…? "Yes," I tell her carefully.

"In that case, I'd like to give them to a charity, one working in Darfur since that seems to be close to your heart. They can auction them."

"If that's what you want to do." I can't help but feel hurt and frustrated by her words. Why can't she just accept the damn books? Why is it so hard for her to do? If she won't accept the books, how is she going to accept the Audi?

"I'll think about it," she says now.

"Don't think, Anastasia," I urge, "Not about this."

I set the Bollinger down and turn to face her. She's lost in thought, I can tell. She's thinking too hard. I tilt her chin up so I can see her face. "I will buy you lots of things, Anastasia. Get used to it. I can afford it. I'm a very wealthy man." I need to get this across to her before she sees the car. Otherwise, I know she's not going to be happy about it—the thought upsets me. I kiss her shortly. "Please," I add as an afterthought. Politeness always wins.

She doesn't seem won over. "It makes me feel cheap."

Irritated, I run a hand through my hair. "It shouldn't. You're overthinking it, Anastasia. Don't place some vague moral judgment on yourself based on what others might think. Don't waste your energy. It's only because you have reservations about our arrangement; that's perfectly natural. You don't know what you're getting yourself into."

Her lips turn down into a frown, and then she bites down on her lower lip. My thoughts darken in immediate succession, but I press them down. There are matters we need to take care of first.

"Hey, stop this." I tug her chin so that she releases her lip. "There's nothing about you that is cheap, Anastasia. I won't have you thinking that. I just bought you some old books that I thought might mean something to you, that's all. Have some champagne." I can't have her thinking too hard about this. I need her to stay open and trusting. Besides, we do have something to celebrate.

A small smile worms its way onto her face.

"That's better," I hum. I turn my attention to the bottle, picking it up. I peel off the foil and remove the cage, then twist the bottle with a practiced flourish. It pops as it opens, and fizzes, but doesn't spill over. I half fill the cups and pass one to her.

"It's pink," she mumbles, astonished, mesmerized.

"Bollinger Grande Année Rose. 1999, an excellent vintage," I indulge her. This is my favorite champagne.

"In teacups," she says.

I grin. "In teacups," I repeat. "Congratulations on your degree, Anastasia." I clink the edge of my cup against hers and I sip. Mmmm, delicious.

"Thank you," she says and takes a drink herself. "Shall we go through the soft limits?"

I smile at her, eliciting that beautiful blush. "Always so eager," I tease her as I take her hand and guide her over to the couch, where we sit. "Your stepfather's a very taciturn man," I tell her.

"You managed to get him eating out of your hand." Her bottom lip juts out as she pouts.

I laugh. "Only because I know how to fish."

"How did you know he liked fishing?" she asks.

"You told me. When we went for coffee." Does she not remember? I remember nearly every detail of that morning.

"Oh… Did I?" she asks, and takes another sip of her champagne. As she lowers the cup from her lips she says, "Did you try the wine at the reception?"

I remember the couple sips I had as I was talking to Ray, taken from a passing by waiter, and make a face, remembering the taste of it. "Yes. It was foul."

"I thought of you when I tasted it," she tells me. "How did you get to be so knowledgeable about wine?"

"I'm not knowledgeable, Anastasia. I just know what I like." Suddenly, we're not talking about wine anymore… I watch her cheeks turn pink. "Some more?"

"Please."

I fill her cup, and ignore the suspicious look she gives me. Is she catching on to my ploy?

"This place looks pretty bare," I blurt, to divert her attention, "Are you ready for the move?"

"More or less."

"Are you working tomorrow?"

"Yes, my last day at Clayton's," she tells me. Good. She'll be rid of that oaf, then. Well—one of them, at least…

"I'd help you move, but I promised to meet my sister at the airport." How I got roped into that duty – I don't remember. No doubt Mia will talk my ear off and pester me with questions. Despite this, I'm excited to see her. She's been gone, out of my reach, for far too long; my little sister means very much to me.

Ana gazes at me inquisitively, so I explain: "Mia arrives from Paris very early Saturday morning. I'm heading back to Seattle tomorrow, but I hear Elliot is giving you two a hand." I'm sure all through my breakfast meeting and the flight back tomorrow, I'll be thinking about it. He better not take his shirt off in front of Anastasia.

"Yes, Kate is very excited about that," she says.

I frown, thinking of the two together. I don't approve. If the arrangement between me and Anastasia ends badly, what will happen then? Kate will have my balls, and who knows whose side Elliot will take now? "Yes, Kate and Elliot, who would have thought?" I murmur. "So what are you doing about work in Seattle?"

"I have a couple of interviews for intern places."

This is news to me. Why didn't she tell me? "You were going to tell me this when?" I demand.

"Er… I'm telling you now." She turns a little pink.

"Where?" I let it slide. I am, in fact, easing her into this. She will learn soon enough.

"A couple of publishing houses," she says evasively.

"Is that what you want to do, something in publishing?" I ask. I'd actually never given it a thought—what she might want to do with her life, now that she's finished her schooling.

She nods.

"Well?" I push when she doesn't speak.

"Well what?"

"Don't be obtuse, Anastasia, which publishing houses?"

"Just small ones." Again with the stonewalling, and I get the idea that she doesn't want to tell me where she's being interviewed. Why?

"Why don't you want to tell me?" I ask her. Why am I so upset about this?

"Undue influence," she says. I feel my lips turn down, and I decide that once I find out, I'll buy it, just so I can keep my tabs on her, make sure she's safe. "Oh, now _you're_ being obtuse," she scolds.

I laugh, shocked at her audacity. Oh, she could really use a good spanking… "Obtuse? Me? God, you're challenging. Drink up, let's talk about these limits." I pull a copy of the list from my inside jacket pocket, watching as she drinks the rest of her cup.

"More?"

"Please."

I smile to myself. That slow flush is starting to stay in her cheek, and her eyes are getting brighter. The alcohol is starting to make its slow affect. Usually, I wouldn't be encouraging this, but as circumstances are, tonight I am. I reach for the champagne bottle, and realize she's only had two cups. Why is the alcohol reaching her system so quickly?

"Have you eaten anything?" I'm wary of the answer. She's had quite the full day.

"Yes," she snaps, "I had a three-course meal with Ray." I watch as she rolls her eyes at me.

Such defiance! I lurch forward and take her chin in my hand, glaring into her eyes, making sure she sees me, and hears these words. "Next time you roll your eyes at me, I will take you across my knee." The idea is very arousing, and part of me hopes she'll do it again.

"Oh," she whispers, and I can see the surprise in her eyes.

"Oh," I mimic her. "So it begins, Anastasia."

I reach for her cup and fill it once more. She drains practically the entire thing. I can't help but think it's because she's been spurred by my chastisement.

"Got your attention now, haven't I?" I demand, feeling the high of the power I have over her settling in. It's only a tiny hum deep inside, nothing compared to the roaring intensity it takes when I'm in my playroom—but it's still there.

She nods silently.

"Answer me."

"Yes… you've got my attention," she relents.

"Good. So sexual acts. We've done most of this."

She scoots closer to me, her scent crowding its way into my nostrils. Jesus, she smells good.

..

**APPENDIX 3**

Soft Limits

To be discussed and agreed between both parties:

Does the Submissive consent to:

-Masturbation

-Cunnilingus

-Fellatio

-Swallowing Semen

-Vaginal Intercourse

-Vaginal fisting

-Anal intercourse

-Anal fisting

..

"No fisting, you say. Anything else you object to?" I ask her, once I've read over the list as well, though I could read the thing in my sleep.

I watch her throat convulse as she swallows. "Anal intercourse doesn't exactly float my boat."

"I'll agree to the fisting, but I'd really like to claim your ass, Anastasia." I've wanted to claim it since the first time I saw it. "But we'll wait for that. Besides, it's not something we can dive into. Your ass will need training." I smirk at her—what fun that will be.

"Training?" Her voice is barely a breath.

"Oh yes. It'll need careful preparation. Anal intercourse can be very pleasurable, trust me." I know. "But if we try it and you don't like it, we don't have to do it again." I'm aware that I'm grinning at her. I can't help it. All of this talk excites me.

She blinks at me. "Have you done that?" she whispers.

"Yes," I tell her honestly.

She gasps. "With a man?" Her tone is incredulous, and I would almost be tempted to laugh if her question didn't spur irritation in me. Why does everyone always think I'm gay? I'd like to remind Anastasia how 'not gay' I am.

"No. I've never had sex with a man. Not my scene." My answer manages to come out calm and collected.

"Mrs. Robinson?"

"Yes."

She frowns, but I ignore it, moving on to the next point on the list.

"And… swallowing semen. Well, you get an A in that."

She flushes, and I allow myself to think back to that morning in the tub. For someone so inexperienced, she sure gives good head.

"So. Swallowing semen okay?" I ask her.

She nods; gaze averted, and finishes her cup.

"More?"

"More." I refill her cup.

"Sex toys?" I ask her.

She shrugs, reading over the second section of the list.

..

Does the Submissive consent to the use of:

-Vibrators

-Butt plugs

-Dildos

-Other vaginal/anal toys

..

"Butt plug?" she inquires, "Does it do what it says on the box?" Her nose crinkles slightly.

"Yes. And I refer to anal intercourse above. Training." I'm aware that I'm smiling again.

"Oh… What's in other?"

"Beads, eggs… that sort of stuff."

"Eggs?" she nearly cries, alarmed.

I burst out laughing. Jesus, she is _so _innocent! "Not real eggs."

She purses her lips at me, and I get the impression that she's not finding this as humoring as I am. "I'm glad you find me funny," she snaps. Oh, she's offended.

I stop laughing. "I apologize, Miss Steele, I'm sorry." I try to look apologetic, but the truth is, I'm just trying to keep myself from laughing again. "Any problem with toys?"

"No."

"Anastasia," I say, surprised now that I truly feel sorry. I never meant to hurt her feelings. "I am sorry. Believe me. I don't mean to laugh. I've never had this conversation in so much detail. You're just so inexperienced. I'm sorry."

She takes another sip from her cup, and her eyes aren't so icy anymore. I think I'm forgiven, so I move on.

"Right—bondage."

..

Does the Submissive consent to:

-Bondage with rope

-Bondage with leather cuffs

-Bondage with handcuffs/shackles/manacles

-Bondage with tape

-Bondage with other

..

"Well?" I ask her.

"Fine," she murmurs, and her eyes return to the page.

..

Does the Submissive consent to be restrained with:

-Hands bound in front

-Ankles bound

-Elbows bound

-Hands bound behind back

-Knees bound

-Wrists bound to ankles

-Binding with spreadbar

-Binding to fixed items, furniture, etc.

-Suspension

Does the Submissive consent to be blindfolded?

Does the Submissive consent to be gagged?

..

"We've talked about suspension. And it's fine if you want to set that up as a hard limit. It takes a great deal of time, and I only have you for short periods of time anyway. Anything else?" I'm having a hard time not picturing her in all the ways the list illustrates, and I try to focus on her answer.

"Don't laugh at me, but what's a spreader bar?"

"I promise not to laugh," I tell her, "I've apologized twice. Don't make me do it again. A spreader is a bar with cuffs for ankles and/or wrists. They're fun."

_Oh, Jesus. Get the image of her cuffed to a spreader bar out of your head, Grey._

"Okay… Well, gagging me. I'd be worried I wouldn't be able to breathe," she confesses.

"_I'd_ be worried if you couldn't breathe. I don't want to suffocate you."

"And how will I use safewords if I'm gagged?" she demands.

Her words give me pause. Some sort of horror-slash-dread fills up inside me, making my insides heavy.

"First of all, I hope you never have to use them. But if you're gagged, we'll use hand signals."

She blinks at me a couple times. "I'm nervous about the gagging."

"Okay. I'll take note," I reassure her.

She gazes at me for another moment, and her next question comes out of nowhere, shocking the hell out of me.

"Do you like tying your submissives up so they can't touch you?"

I can't hide the surprise registering on my face. She's seen right through me. For some reason, her knowing that I don't like to be touched disturbs me. I'd rather she didn't question it. "That's one of the reasons."

"Is that why you've tied my hands?"

"Yes," I admit reluctantly. I don't know how to change the subject. I'm frozen in this automatic response loop. No. No. No. Get me out of here.

"You don't like talking about that," she realizes aloud.

"No, I don't." Reason returns, and I'm able to think again. "Would you like another drink? It's making you brave, and I need to know how you feel about pain."

I pour her another cup of champagne, and she swallows. "So, what's your general attitude to receiving pain?" When I look up at her, I find that she's chewing on that lip. "You're biting your lip." Oh, I want to fuck her.

Her lips part and her face turns pink. She stares down at her hands, cradled around the teacup in her lap. She doesn't say anything.

"Were you physically punished as a child?" I push.

"No."

"So you have no sphere of reference at all?" Oh, this may be more difficult than I thought. And more fun… Introducing the world of pleasure/pain to Anastasia Steele… Hmm.

"No."

"It's not as bad as you think," I assure her, "Your imagination is your worst enemy in this."

"Do you have to do it?"

Without question. "Yes."

"Why?" she asks.

Some unnamed emotion settles in my throat. I don't dwell on it long enough to identify it. "Goes with the territory, Anastasia. It's what I do. I can see you're nervous. Let's go through methods."

..

-Spanking

-Whipping

-Biting

-Genital clamps

-Hot wax

-Paddling

-Caning

-Nipple clamps

-Ice

-Other types/methods of pain

..

"Well, you said no genital clamps. That's fine. It's caning that hurts the most." She visibly pales. "We can work up to that."

"Or not do it at all," she protests in a whisper.

"This is part of the deal, baby, but we'll work up to all of this. Anastasia, I won't push you too far," I promise.

"This punishment thing, it worries me the most," she importunes, very quietly. I'm pleased she's being so honest with me.

"Well, I'm glad you've told me. We'll keep caning off the list for now. And as you get more comfortable with everything else, we'll increase intensity. We'll take it slow." Start with a cool pot of water, and warm it up gradually…

She swallows, clearly still nervous, and I lean forward to kiss her. We're done.

"There, that wasn't so bad was it?"

She shrugs, her small shoulders rising, then falling.

"Look, I want to talk about one more thing, then I'm taking you to bed." Abruptly, there's a hornet's nest buzzing in my stomach. I've been thinking of this all afternoon, debating on whether or not to bring it up. I've decided now, that she's been so forthcoming and reticent.

"Bed?" She blinks spasmodically, as if surprised by my intentions.

"Come on, Anastasia, talking through all this, I want to fuck you into next week, right now. It must be having some effect on you, too."

Subtly, she squirms.

"See? Besides, there's something I want to try."

"Something painful?" she asks.

"No—stop seeing pain everywhere." Irritation flares subtly, but I push it back, knowing she's only starting out. I need to be patient with her. Just like I'd like her to be patient with me, regarding this… "It's mainly pleasure. Have I hurt you yet?"

She blushes. "No."

"Well, then. Look, earlier today you were talking about wanting more." I stop, all at once ambiguous. I don't know if I can do this. I've never done anything like this before. I'm not made that way. But I think, for Ana, that I may be willing to try. Just as she is, for me.

I take her hand in mine, feeling her soft, silken skin. It gives me the courage to continue. "Outside of the time you're my sub, perhaps we could try. I don't know if it will work. I don't know about separating everything. It may not work. But I'm willing to try. Maybe one night a week. I don't know."

I don't know if I can see her in the way I'm accustomed to on the weekends, then in an entirely different way during the week. I'm not sure I'm up to it, even now, as I say the words to her. I can't do this—it's not natural, it's not me. But perhaps, it's something… better.

"I have one condition," I tell her.

"What?" she whispers.

"You graciously accept my graduation present to you." The hornet's nest intensifies.

"Oh."

I stare at her, watching and waiting for her response. She appears… confused, but aware, all at the same time.

"Come." I stand, pulling her to her feet with me. I pull my jacket off and drape it over her bare shoulders and back. We head toward the door, and step outside. I watch her absorb the sight of the red hatchback, two-door compact Audi A4.

"It's for you. Happy graduation." I pull her to me, kissing her hair, inhaling the sweet, sweet smell of her. Oh, I hope she likes it, accepts it…

For a long time, she doesn't say anything, only stares at the car, lips slightly parted, eyes wide. I release her from my embrace, keeping her hand, and tug her down the walkway, so she can get a closer look.

"Anastasia, that Beetle of yours is old and frankly dangerous," I find myself wheedling, making a case for my purchase—which I've _never _had to fucking do before. "I would never forgive myself if something happened to you when it's so easy for me to make it right…"

She stands there, stock-still, silent, eyes glued to the car. Does she love it? Does she hate it? Is she registering any of this? I can't tell.

"I mentioned it to your stepfather. He was all for it."

Finally, she moves, her gaze turning to me, morphing into a ferocious looking glare. "You mentioned this to Ray?" she barks, "How could you?"

"It's a gift, Anastasia," I tell her now, and I can feel the irritability rising. "Can't you just say thank you?"

"But you know it's too much," she protests, flabbergasted.

"Not to me it isn't, not for my peace of mind." _Anything to keep you safe, Anastasia._

She frowns, not speaking for a long moment. Finally, she says, "I'm happy for you to loan this to me, like the laptop."

I sigh relenting. If this is the way she will accept it, I suppose this is the way. "Okay. On loan. Indefinitely."

"No, not indefinitely, but for now. Thank you."

I frown, warring with myself about which part of her phrase to focus on.

She stretches up and plants a kiss on my cheek; her lips are so soft. "Thank you for the car, sir," she tells me sweetly.

Those words spur lust like wildfire in my veins, and I clutch her to me, one hand at the middle of her back, securing her against me, the other in her hair, loose, and trailing over her shoulders and down her back.

"You are one challenging woman, Ana Steele." I crush my lips to hers, forcing my tongue into her mouth. Oh, her taste. Her sweet, sweet taste. "It's taking all my self-control not to fuck you on the hood of this car right now, just to show you that you are mine, and if I want to buy you a fucking car, I'll buy you a fucking car. Now let's get you inside and naked." I kiss her once more, and then pull her back toward her apartment.


	17. Chapter 17

_Thursday May 26, Evening_

In Anastasia's bedroom, I switch on the lamp at her bedside.

"Please don't be angry with me," she whispers, and I freeze, deterred by her words. Talk about a mood killer.

"I'm sorry about the car and the books… You scare me when you're angry." She's staring at me, those blue eyes wide and sincere, and I can see the fear in them.

I close my eyes, pained by it. No, I don't want her to be scared of me. _Get your shit together, Grey,_ I snap at myself, shaking my head. When I open my eyes, I've calmed some. I inhale deeply and swallow.

"Turn around," I murmur, trying to soften my tone, "I want to get you out of that dress."

She does, facing away from me, and I step up behind her. I scoop her hair off her back and over her shoulder, so that it's out of the way. I can see almost every inch of that perfect alabaster skin, the near entirety of her back exposed to me. From the nape of her neck, all the way down to the back of her dress, I run my index finger along her spine, admiring her beauty.

"I like this dress. I like to see your flawless skin." I hook my finger into her top, and pull her backwards. She stumbles back, against my chest. I lean forward, and stick my nose in her hair, inhaling deeply. Mmmm. "You smell so good, Anastasia. So sweet." I skim my nose past her ear and down her neck, leaving gentle kisses along the ridge of her shoulder. I can feel the silky smoothness of her skin against my lips.

Her breathing is growing ragged. Very slowly, I undo her zipper, teasing her, making her feel the build, the anticipation. I kiss along her back, the nape of her neck, over to her other shoulder as I unzip her dress. As I do so, she wiggles subtly.

"You are going to have to learn to keep still," I breathe against the back of her neck. I undo the fastening there, and the gauzy material drops away from her body, swirling into a puddle at her feet. The entirety of her back is bare. "No bra, Miss Steele. I like that." I reach around her body, taking her breasts in my hands. They weigh perfectly in my grasp, and I can feel her nipples hardening underneath my touch. "Lift your arms and put them around my head," I command her softly.

As she does so, her breasts swell, pushing firmly into my grasp, and I can feel her nipples pucker further. I feel her fingers weave into my hair, and she tugs softly. _Oh, shit, that feels nice._ She rolls her head to one side, exposing the right side of her neck to me. I moan softly into it, into that zone behind her ear, rolling her nipples gently between my fingers. They are erect and elongating in my hands. She groans softly in response.

"Shall I make you come this way?" I whisper in her ear. Her body bows into my hands. "You like this, don't you, Miss Steele?" That familiar high is setting in again. She's like jelly in my hands—I'm in complete and utter control here.

"Mmmm…" she moans in response.

"Tell me."

"Yes." Her voice is breathless and shallow.

"Yes, what."

"Yes… Sir."

Mmmm… Yes. I like it when she calls me 'Sir'. "Good girl," I murmur, and I pinch each of her nipples hard. She gasps and writhes. I feel her behind against my growing erection as she pulls my hair harder. The sensation is exquisite.

"I don't think you're ready to come yet," I breathe, and I soften my hands, bringing a stop to the teasing. I nip her earlobe softly, and tug it between my teeth. "Besides, you have displeased me."

Softly, she groans.

"So perhaps I won't let you come after all," I muse, beginning to roll her nipples between my thumbs and index fingers once more. She grinds, swaying her hips side to side, against me.

I grin; dropping my hands to her hips, and hook my fingers into the waistband of her panties. They're lacy and delicate. Easily, I shred them apart, and I toss them on the floor in front of us, so she can see what I've done. I lower my hands further, feeling the heat grow, and I push one finger into her.

"Oh yes, my sweet girl is ready," I nearly hiss. She is so fucking wet, just for me. Only me. Ever. I tug, turning her around so I can see her face. I keep my eyes glued to hers as I suck on my finger, tasting her arousal.

"You taste so fine, Miss Steele." I admire this gorgeous woman standing in front of me, entirely naked except for those high-heeled shoes. She looks amazing, edible. I want to fuck her, badly. She looks so empowered, so bold, and I make a decision at once.

"Undress me," I demand.

She only stares at me; she seems a little surprised.

"You can do it."

She blinks and reaches for my t-shirt.

That familiar taste of coppery panic rises in my mouth, but I force the residual feeling down. I grip her wrists, and smile at her. "Oh no, not the t-shirt," I say, shaking my head, and I force a grin, staying playful. She can never see how terrified I am. "You may need to touch me for what I have planned."

_Yes… I want to watch her above me, riding me, taking control… Mmmm._

I guide one her hands to my cock, stiff inside my jeans. "This is the effect you have on me, Miss Steele," I murmur to her. Her lips part as she inhales sharply, and wraps her fingers around me. I grin at her. She's so… taken by it all.

"I want to be inside you. Take my jeans off. You're in charge," I say to her.

Her mouth drops open, and I have to try hard not to laugh. "What are you going to do with me?" I badger her.

I'm shocked when she lifts her hands, bold and sexy, steps forward and pushes me, hard. I'm laughing as I fall back onto her mattress. She gazes down at me for a moment, fire blazing in her eyes. Fuck, she's hot in those shoes.

She reaches down to take off my shoes and socks, fumbling a couple times in her haste, and I stare at her, amused and out of my mind with desire. She clambers up over me, sitting astride my lap. She slips her fingers into my waistband. The muscles in my belly contract at her touch, a shiver jolting up my spine. I close my eyes and arch my hips softly into her hands. Oh, fuck. I want her hands on me, her mouth, and I want to be buried inside her, all at once.

"You'll have to learn to keep still," she scolds me, and tugs hard at the hair on my belly.

Ouch! My breath hitches in response to the sudden jolt of pain slash pleasure, and I grin at her. "Yes, Miss Steele." I humor her. "In my pocket, condom," I whisper.

I watch her, and she watches me, as she reaches in and fishes for the packets. When she finds them, she pulls them out and lays them on the mattress. She pops the button on my jeans, and drags the zipper down. She pauses, that little crinkle appearing between her eyebrows. She shuffles down a little and tugs, to no avail. Just when my amusement is getting the best of me, she chomps down on that lip, and I nearly lose it.

"I can't keep still if you're going to bite that lip," I warn her, and relent, lifting my hips so she can pull my jeans off.

She tugs, removing my pants and boxers at the same time, and my hardness springs up to greet her, slapping against my stomach. I kick my clothes to the floor when they reach my ankles.

She's staring at my cock, her eyes wide, lips parted. Oh, she wants me. And I want her… badly.

"Now what are you going to do?" I whisper to her, and suddenly I'm not so amused anymore, just lustful.

She takes me in her hands, and the feeling is exquisite. I inhale sharply, a gasp. Oh, her hands are warm and soft and smooth on me… Shit. All of a sudden, she's leaning forward, her hair falling around her, tickling my thighs, and her mouth is on me. Hot and warm and wet. She sucks hard, and I squeeze my eyes shut, clamp my hands into fists, my hips jerking on their own accord. _Fuck!_

"Jeez, Ana, steady," I warn her, moaning. Oh my fucking god. So good.

She sucks and pulls, pushing me further, taking more of me in, until I can feel the back of her throat again. She tightens her lips around me, fucking me with her mouth and—fucking shit. I'm going to come.

"Stop, Ana, stop. I don't want to come." I want to be inside of her for that. Mercifully, she releases me, sitting up. She blinks at me, as if coming out of a daze. Her hair is a smoky dark cloud around her face, her cheeks flushed with desire.

"Your innocence and enthusiasm is very disarming," I tell her, trying desperately to catch my fucking breath. "You, on top… that's what we need to do. Here, put this on." I hand her one of the condoms. For a minute, she stares at it contemplatively. Finally, she rips it open, pulling the condom out. I realize she probably has no idea how to even put one of these fuckers on, and the realization makes my cock twitch.

I am reminded again that she is solely mine. Only mine. The thought is like a burst of adrenaline, a hit of cocaine—or how I imagine a hit of cocaine would be.

"Pinch the top and then roll it down," I instruct her, "You don't want any air in the end of that sucker." I'm panting, overwhelmed by my need. _Hurry the fuck up, Ana, baby. I need to be inside you._

Agonizingly slowly, she rolls the condom on. She's concentrating hard, that wrinkle between her brows showing again. "Christ, you're killing me here, Anastasia," I groan.

She sits back a moment, seeming to admire my member. _Take a good look, baby. It's all for you._

"Now. I want to be buried inside you," I breathe, overcome with impatience. She just stares at me, seeming a little apprehensive.

_Oh, fuck. Let's just get this show on the road!_

I sit up swiftly, so close the tips of our nose nearly touch. "Like this," I coach her, wrapping one arm around her hips, hoisting her up. With the other, I grasp myself, positioning myself at her entrance, and very slowly, I lower her onto me. I clench my teeth, hissing softly at the sensation. Oh, fuck. She's so tight and warm and wet, and it's so fucking deep in this position. I can feel every inch of her clenched around me, giving, stretching, to make room for me.

She groans softly as I fill her, her lips parted as she just… feels me. The sight is unbelievably erotic.

"That's right, baby, feel me, all of me," I growl, and I shut my eyes for a second. _Shittt._ I clutch her tightly, holding her still for a few seconds, composing myself. What is it about this woman that makes me want to combust so quickly? It's so, so deep. Every inch of her is wrapped around every inch of me.

"It's deep this way." I flex my hips, swiveling them at the same time, pushing myself impossibly further into her, around, and she moans.

"Again," she breathes. Her eyes are on blue fire, darkened with her lust, and I grin languidly at her eagerness. I oblige immediately, arching and rotating my hips once more. She moans again, louder, throwing her head back.

I ease myself down onto my back. "You move, Anastasia, up and down, how you want," I encourage her, "Take my hands."

She intertwines her fingers with mine, our palms pressed firmly together. She braces herself against me as she starts to move, hesitantly. As her hips come back down, I buck mine up slightly; propelling her back up, and quickly, our motions are synchronized in a rhythm that is absolutely perfect. Our ragged breathing mingles together, our gazes locked. I am absolutely enthralled with this woman. She is so beautiful and amazing, brave and bold. She's willing to try. She's willing to step out of her comfort zone, and into mine, just for me. The thought is euphoric, and she barely has time to explode around me before I let go, my orgasm ripping through me full force. I empty myself into her, and I feel her fall forward, collapsing on my chest, breathing hard.

I'm lost in the clouds; flying through the free-fall my orgasm has given me. All at once, I feel her hand spread out on my chest, and I'm automatically swiping at it, gripping it firmly in mine, in order to stop her from touching me again. The panic is lessened somewhat by the fact that I'm wearing a shirt, but still.

I roll and pin her beneath me, so that I can have the upper hand. "Don't," I beg of her, and kiss her softly—hoping I'm not hurting her feelings.

"Why don't you like to be touched?" she implores, staring unbearably deeply, into my eyes.

"Because I'm fifty shades of fucked up, Anastasia."

She blinks at me, and I can see the shock and disappointment rise in her eyes, like tears. "I had a very rough introduction to life. I don't want to burden you with the details. Just don't." She doesn't need to hear about the poor hungry little boy and his crack whore mother. I brush my nose against hers, and pull out of her, sitting up.

"I think that's all the very basics covered. How was that?" I ask her. There's that. All done and finished. We've covered everything foundational. Now we can… build. Hmm.

She tilts her head to the side and smiles at me. "If you imagine for one minute that I think you ceded control to me, well you haven't taken into account my GPA." She smiles coyly. "But thank you for the illusion."

"Miss Steele, you are not just a pretty face. You've had six orgasms so far and all of them belong to me." Fucking damn, I'm proud of that!

Her cheeks pink as I gaze at her. She looks guilty. I feel my brow furrow, all of a sudden anxious that maybe that's not so. "Do you have something to tell me?" If she's been fucking lying…

She frowns. "I had a dream this morning."

"Oh?" I glare at her. About that fucking photographer? If she took action and touched herself, while thinking of him—

"I came in my sleep." All of a sudden she's throwing her arm over her face, ashamed.

The rage is gone, replaced by pure amusement. "In your sleep?" I ask her as she peeks out at me from her 'hiding place'.

"Woke me up," she admits.

"I'm sure it did. What were you dreaming about?"

She turns even redder, and now I'm really curious. "You."

Damn right. "What was I doing?"

Her arm is over her face again, and she doesn't speak.

"Anastasia, what was I doing?" I command, "I won't ask you again."

"You had a riding crop," she murmurs.

A riding crop? Well, shit, maybe there is some hope. That's hot. I reach for her wrist and move her arm, so that I can see her face. She's practically puce.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"There's hope for you yet. I have several riding crops."

"Brown plaited leather?" she asks, and do I hear eagerness in her tone? Well, now I have an idea on what to do for our first scene… I'll have to order one at my earliest convenience.

I laugh. "No, but I'm sure I could get one." I lean down to kiss her briefly, and then I grab my boxers, pulling them on. As I dress, she gets off the bed and pulls on a pair of sweats and a ragged looking camisole.

I'm idly thinking about those damn condoms, and looking forward to the day when we don't have to use them anymore. "When is your period due?" I ask her, and I'm aware the question is sort of sudden. "I hate wearing these things." I hold up the condom in explanation, and then put it on the floor so I can pull up my jeans.

She doesn't answer.

"Well?" I push, glancing over at her.

"Next week," she says, gazing at her hands. She looks a little embarrassed. Whatever. Periods have never bothered me. It's just a little bit of blood. All part of being a woman. Plus, it means she's not pregnant.

"You need to sort out some contraception."

She stares at me. I sit beside her on the mattress to pull on my socks and shoes.

"Do you have a doctor?" I ask her.

She shakes her head.

I frown, disapproving. What if she were to fall ill? I should line one up for her. "I can have mine come and see you at your apartment—Sunday morning before you come and see me. Or he can see you at my place. Which would you prefer?"

"Your place," she tells me.

"Okay. I'll let you know the time."

"Are you leaving?" She asks and she sounds so… Forlorn.

"Yes." I keep my answer firm.

"How are you getting back?" Now her voice is only a breath.

"Taylor will pick me up." I glance at the alarm clock by her bed. It's nearly ten to ten.

"I can drive you," she offers, "I have a lovely new car."

Her words please me. She sounds eager and excited about my new purchase for her. "That's more like it. But I think you've had too much to drink." She's still flushed, and I know it's not just from the sex.

"Did you get me tipsy on purpose?" she asks.

"Yes." Honesty is the best policy.

"Why?"

"Because you overthink everything, and you're reticent like your stepdad. A drop of wine in you and you start talking, and I need you to communicate honestly with me. Otherwise you clam up and I have no idea what you're thinking. In vino veritas, Anastasia."

"And you think you're always honest with me?" she challenges.

"I endeavor to be. This will only work if we're honest with each other."

"I'd like you to stay and use this," she says, holding up the second condom.

I smile, amused. "Anastasia, I have crossed so many lines here tonight. I have to go. I'll see you on Sunday. I'll have the revised contract ready for you, and then we can really start to play." Excitement flares in my gut at the thought.

"Play?" she blurts.

"I'd like to do a scene with you. But I won't until you've signed, so I know you're ready," I tell her.

"Oh. So I could stretch this out if I don't sign?"

Stretch this out… This unfamiliar fucking, this new territory… How long can I last like this? I'm dying to get her into my playroom. It's like a constant itch, too deep under my skin to reach by way of this. I know the only thing that will satisfy it is doing a scene with her.

"Well, I suppose you could, but I may crack under the strain."

"Crack? How?" she asks, and I think she's teasing me.

I nod slowly, grinning at her. "Could get really ugly."

Her answering grin is radiant. "Ugly, how?"

"Oh, you know, explosions, car chases, kidnapping, incarceration."

"You'd kidnap me?" she asks coyly.

Are we flirting?

"Oh yes." I grin at her.

"Hold me against my will?"

"Oh yes," I tell her, nodding. This is getting heated. She has no idea how much I'd like to hold her—well, not against her will. "And then we're talking TPE 24/7."

"You've lost me," she breathes, and I can see the way I'm affecting her.

"Total Power Exchange," I explain, "around the clock." Shit, I'm getting turned on again. "So you have no choice," I tell her darkly.

"Clearly." And as I watch, she rolls her eyes toward the ceiling.

Excitement flares in my gut. "Oh, Anastasia Steele, did you just roll your eyes at me?"

"No." Her voice is high and squeaky.

"I think you did. What did I say I'd do to you if you rolled your eyes at me again?" I lower myself onto the edge of the bed, trying to tame the monster clawing in my gut. I'm already stiffening in my pants.

"Come here."

She sits, staring at me fixedly. "I haven't signed," she whispers, and I can tell she's nervous. But there's no stopping me now. I'll show her just how pleasurable pain can be.

"I told you what I'd do. I'm a man of my word. I'm going to spank you, and then I'm going to fuck you very quick and very hard. Looks like we'll need that condom after all." I stare at her, waiting.

Her legs unfold from underneath her slowly. "I'm waiting. I'm not a patient man."

She crawls over to me, and I can see that she may possibly be turned on by this. Her face is pink, her lips are parted, and as she nears me, I can hear her panting.

"Good girl. Now stand up."

She stumbles to her feet, in front of me. I hold my hand out for the condom and she passes it to me. I grip her hands, tugging her sharply so that she falls over me, onto my lap. I shift slightly, so that her torso is lying on the bed. I hold her legs down with one of mine, and lay my left forearm across her lower back, effectively immobilizing her.

"Put your hands up on either side of your head," I command her. That dark, lustful, heady fog is rolling in, clouding up my mind.

She lifts her hands and plants them by her head immediately.

"Why am I doing this, Anastasia?" I ask her.

"Because I rolled my eyes at you," she whispers, barely audible.

"Do you think that's polite?"

"No," she whispers.

"Will you do it again?" I demand.

"No."

"I will spank you each time you do it, do you understand?"

I don't give her time to answer—her response is irrelevant. I reach for her sweatpants, pulling them down, so slowly, revealing that perfect ass.

Mmmm. I spread my palm out on the swell of her magnificent behind, stroking her skin, sensitizing it, feeling my palm start to tingle. Underneath her, my cock is stirring, and I wonder if she can feel it. She is so, so hot, and I am unbelievably turned on right now.

I lift my hand, and bring it down sharply. The smack my hand makes against her behind rings loud and clear in my head. My palm sparks in response, and it starts to tingle even more intensely. I haven't hit her hard—I'm starting her off easy.

She wiggles in response, trying to lift herself up, but I push my hand between her shoulder blades, keeping her down.

I run my palm over the place I've hit her, watching it turn red, in the shape of my hand, and I can hear the harshness of my breath. But I can't help it. This is so hot. How long have I waited to spank her? To make her mine? Here I am doing it, and it's so fucking sexy.

I spank her twice, in quick succession, and each time I hit her, she tries to wriggle out of my hold—to no avail.

"Keep still or I'll spank you for longer," I bark at her. Oh, my palm is really tingling, and I can tell it'll be red. I rub her ass again, admiring the beautiful pink against that alabaster skin. So beautiful.

I spank her again, and again.

She cries out on the tenth blow.

"I'm just getting warmed up." _Like your skin_.

I continue the process, drawing it out, and I don't know if it's for my benefit or hers.

She cries out once more, wordlessly.

"No one to hear you, baby, just me," I whisper to her. I lift my hand and bring it down sharply once more, and again, stopping in between to fondle her skin, to feel the warmth of it. Warming under my hand… Hmm.

On the eighteenth spank, I stop. I need to fuck her now. My cock is aching with the strain.

"Enough," I whisper, and I sound a little husky. "Well done, Anastasia. Now I'm going to fuck you." I stroke her behind once more, knowing it'll smart—at least for tonight—and then reach down, plunging two fingers inside of her. I nearly come on the spot. She's fucking soaked. She likes this—she's turned on by it, and the fact has my insides singing.

She gasps at my intrusion. "Feel this," I demand of her, "See how much your body likes this, Anastasia. You're soaking just for me." I am in awe of this woman. I thrust my fingers into her twice. She groans, and I pull my fingers out.

"Next time, I will get you to count. Now where's that condom?" I'm reaching for it, running my hand along the duvet—oh, it's sensitive, but I like it. I find purchase, and I pick it up, shifting Anastasia onto the mattress at the same time, face down. I want to look at that marvelous ass while I fuck her.

I free myself from my jeans and roll the condom on. I reach for her pants and remove them completely, tossing them on the floor by her bed. I push her knees up under her hips, shoving that glorious reddened ass into the air. Oh, it's really pink now, and the sight of it makes me pulse. Gently, I caress her behind.

"I'm going to take you now. You can come," I murmur, then I slam into her. _Oh, fuck._

She moans loudly as I hammer into her, again and again. The sensation builds quickly, coupled with the sight I have of her ass, but for her it builds quicker. She comes loudly just in time. As she contracts around me, I let go. My orgasm is very intense, earth shattering almost. I spiral into a vortex of overwhelming joy and pure sensation.

"Oh, Ana!" I cry as I pour myself into her. I pull out of her and collapse onto the mattress beside her. That was a hell of an orgasm. I am exhausted, and absolutely sated, fighting to find my breath as I pull her on top of me, smothering my face in her hair. She smells of freesia and sandalwood and sex. "Oh, baby," I pant, "Welcome to my world."


	18. Chapter 18

_Thursday May 26, 2011, Evening_

I am ecstatic.

She's done it—and though I know it's only the beginning, I have faith that she will do well with this. This is going to be amazing, and it's only the beginning. As I drift down slowly from one of the most intense orgasms I've ever had, I inhale deeply. Her scent floods my senses. I am covered in Ana, and I'm basking in it.

"Well done, baby," I congratulate her.

She doesn't answer, lying prostrate across my chest. I reach down and tug on the thinning strap of her camisole. "Is this what you sleep in?"

"Yes," she whispers, and she sounds exhausted. Another firecracker of joy explodes in me when I realize that's all because of me. I did that to her. I've exhausted her.

"You should be in silks and satins, you beautiful girl. I'll take you shopping."

"I like my sweats," she tries to argue, but she doesn't sound very convincing. In fact, she sounds like she's on the verge of falling asleep.

I kiss her head, choosing to save the argument for later. I'm just too happy right now. "We'll see."

We fall into companionable silence, and I don't know how much time passes. I am relaxed, absolutely sated. When I feel myself start to drift off, I know I need to leave. We can't continue on like this, not with our new arrangement. Ignoring how badly I'd like to stay—surprised by the intensity of it—I force myself to speak. "I have to go." I give her another kiss on the forehead. She doesn't move to shift off of me. "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," she answers.

I slip off the mattress, rising to my feet. "Where's your bathroom?" I ask her.

"Down the hall, to the left," she murmurs.

I gather both of the condoms and head down the hall. The apartment is quiet, empty aside from us two. I suppose Miss Kavanagh is still out, and I'm glad for that. In the bathroom, with the door shut behind me, I toss the knotted condoms in the wastebasket, and take a leak. As I wash my hands, I study my face in the mirror. My hair is insane—I barely look at that. My face is slightly flushed, my lips a little swollen and chapped from all the kissing. My eyes are bright, brighter than I've ever seen them. I'm happier than I've been in a long time, overwhelmed with joy. Ana's agreed to try. She's agreed to be my submissive.

A small, stabbing voice inside my head reminds me, _You've agreed to try for more._

_More. _I roll the word around in my head, trying desperately to stitch it to a definition. I can't.I don't know what more means.How the hell am I supposed to give her more if I don't know how to do it?I rinse the back of my neck with cool water, suddenly overheated, and dry myself with the hand towel, which hangs nearby.Hearts and flowers. She wants hearts and flowers. I conjure every cheesy rom-com I've ever seen, in my head, grappling for something. Am I supposed to stand under her window with a boom box over my head?

Is that what she wants? I'm not this guy. I'm Christian Grey, Dom. But for Ana, I'm going to try. Even if I have no fucking idea what I'm doing. I shake my head, and open the medicine cabinet. Pepto, Tampax, lotion, ah ha—baby oil. I snatch up the bottle and return to her bedroom.

She's slipped her sweatpants back on. I imagine it smarts. She's not looking at me, staring down at her hands. What's that about?

"I found some baby oil," I tell her, "Let me rub some into your behind."

"No, I'll be fine."

"Anastasia," I warn. She'll need it. Her ass is going to be inflamed, and the baby oil will help. She relents, standing at the bed, facing me. I pull her pants down, careful not to chafe her backside too much. I squirt some of the oil into my hand, and rub it into her rosy pink cheeks. Hmm... "I like my hands on you," I say lowly.

She doesn't answer me. I'm beginning to feel irritated. Why won't she speak to me? Is she embarrassed? Ashamed? Regretful? I can't tell. Her expression is impassive.

"There." I'm finished. I pull her sweatpants up again, the elastic snapping around her waist. "I'm leaving now."

"I'll see you out."

I take her hand in mine, and we walk to the front door together, in silence.

"Don't you have to call Taylor?" she inquires, still not looking at me.

"Taylor's been here since nine. Look at me." Her gaze meets mine, and abruptly I'm filled with wonder at her, once more. "You didn't cry," I say, and despite my conversation with myself in the bathroom mirror, I'm overwhelmed with joy again. I pull her to me, kissing her passionately. "Sunday," I state, brimming over with eagerness, and I turn and leave.

When I get back to the hotel, the happiness is still bouncing around inside me, doing strange things to my stomach and my heart. I can't stop thinking about her, so I type out a quick email.

...

**From:** Christian Grey

**Subject:** You

**Date:** May 26 2011 23:14

**To:** Anastasia Steele

Dear Miss Steele,

You are quite simply exquisite. The most beautiful, intelligent, witty and brave woman I have ever met. Take some Advil-this is not a request. And don't drive your Beetle again. I will know.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

...

I've had Taylor install a tracking device in it. I can't have her driving that death trap anymore.

It's over five minutes later when she responds.

...

**From:** Anastasia Steele

**Subject:** Flattery

**Date:** May 26 2011 23:20

**To:** Christian Grey

Dear Mr. Grey,

Flattery will get you nowhere, but since you've been _everywhere_ the point is moot.

I will need to drive my Beetle to a garage so I can sell it—so I will not graciously accept any of your nonsense over that.

Red wine is always preferable to Advil.

Ana

P.S. Caning is a HARD limit for me.

...

Her response is tart and defiant, and I feel irritation crack a fissure in my happiness. Well, well, Miss Steele.

...

**From:** Christian Grey

**Subject:** Frustrating Woman Who Can't Take Compliments

**Date:** May 26 2011 23:26

**To:** Anastasia Steele

Dear Miss Steele,

I am not flattering you. You should go to bed.

I accept your addition to the hard limits.

Don't drink too much.

Taylor will dispose of your car and get a good price for it, too.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

...

I run my hand through my hair. What a piece of work this woman can be. Alcohol _does_ make her brave. My inbox pings, notifying me of another email.

...

**From:** Anastasia Steele

**Subject:** Taylor—Is he the Right Man for the Job?

**Date:** May 26 2011 23:40

**To:** Christian Grey

Dear Sir,

I am intrigued that you are happy to risk letting your right-hand man drive my car but not some woman you fuck occasionally. How can I be sure that Taylor is the man to get the best deal for said car? I have, in the past, probably before I met you, been known to drive a hard bargain.

Ana

...

'_Some woman I fuck occasionally.' _Is that what she thinks of herself? The irritation piques to rage.

...

**From:** Christian Grey

**Subject:** Careful!

**Date:** May 26 2011 23:44

**To:** Anastasia Steele

Dear Miss Steele,

I am assuming it is the RED WINE talking, and that you've had a very long day.

Though I am tempted to drive back over there to ensure that you don't sit down for a week, rather than an evening.

Taylor is ex-army and capable of driving anything from a motorcycle to a Sherman tank. Your car does not present a hazard to him.

Now please do not refer to yourself as "some woman I fuck occasionally" because, quite frankly, it makes me MAD, and you really wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

...

**From:** Anastasia Steele

**Subject:** Careful Yourself

**Date:** May 26 2011 23:57

**To:** Christian Grey

Dear Mr. Grey,

I'm not sure I like you anyway, especially at the moment.

Miss Steele

...

_What?!_

...

**From:** Christian Grey

**Subject:** Careful Yourself

**Date:** May 27 2011 00:03

**To:** Anastasia Steele

Why don't you like me?

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

...

**From:** Anastasia Steele

**Subject:** Careful Yourself

**Date:** May 27 2011 00:09

**To:** Christian Grey

Because you never stay with me

...

My decision is made before I even shut my laptop down.

.

I knock briskly on the front door, and when Miss Kavanagh pulls it open, I realize she's come home.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing here?!" She shouts at me.

Whoa! For a second, I'm taken off guard. She's mad. Really mad. Pissed, even. Something must have happened, and abruptly I'm concerned about Ana. "I've come to see Anastasia. I'd like to come in."

"Well, you can't!" she shouts. "What the fuck have you done to her now?!"

She must be really upset, but my concern for Ana is more important than the wrath of angry Miss Kavanagh.

"Since she's met you, she cries all the time!"

She's been crying? I push past Kate, and she stalks after me, through the living room. "You can't come in here!" She screams.

I ignore her, striding down the hall, to Anastasia's closed bedroom door. I push it open and switch on the light. Ana is curled up on her side in bed, and she's sobbing uncontrollably. _What the fuck?!_ "Jesus, Ana," I mutter, and immediately turn off the light. There's a strange tearing feeling in my chest, seeing her like this, and my heart is pounding way too fast. I've really fucked up. But how? Fuck, this is so frustrating! I'm only doing what I know, what I've always done!

"What are you doing here?" she demands between sobs as I sink down onto the mattress next to her. I turn on the lamp by her bed.

Katherine is standing in the bedroom doorway. "Do you want me to throw this asshole out?" she asks Ana.

_Throw me out?! Please. _Nonetheless, I'm shocked by the antagonism in her voice, all directed towards me. No one has ever stood up to me this way. I'm fucking impressed.

Ana shakes her head at Kate, and Kate rolls her eyes, exasperated. "Just holler if you need me," she tells her softly, and then turns her burning eyes on me. "Grey—you're on my shit list and I'm watching you."

I blink at her, astonished, and then she's gone, pulling the door shut behind her, giving us our privacy. I turn my gaze to Ana, and in the light, I can see how hard she's been crying. Her eyes are bloodshot and swollen, her nose running. She looks like she's in agony, and I feel the blood drain from my face.

I am such a fuck-up.

I pull my handkerchief from my inside jacket pocket and hand it to her. "What's going on?" I beseech her. What have I done?

"Why are you here?" she asks me in return. Every once in a while, a dry heave wracks her ribs, though the tears have stopped falling.

"Part of my role is to look after your needs. You said you wanted me to stay, so here I am. And yet, I find you like this." Part of my answer is wholehearted. What I leave out, what I choose not to tell her, is that I want this just as much as she does. I'm just a whole hell of a lot more conflicted about it than she is. "I'm sure I'm responsible, but I have no idea why. Is it because I hit you?"

She sits up and turns to face me. I see her wince as she does.

"Did you take some Advil?" I ask her. She shakes her head. I can't help but narrow my eyes at her. When will she do what I ask of her? I stand and stalk out of the room in search of some.

Kate is sitting on the couch, on her laptop, and she glares up at me when I enter. "Are you leaving now?" she snaps at me, and if the venom were more potent, it would burn a hole through me.

"No," I tell her, forcing composure, "Ana has a headache. Do you have some Advil?" She gets it for me, and a teacup of water. "Thank you, Katherine."

"Sort your shit out, Grey. I won't have you hurting her. She's my best friend." Sincerity brims in her eyes, and by the end of her phrase she's no longer snapping, but quiet and genuine. I realize that she really cares about Ana, and the thought comforts me.

"I'd never hurt her intentionally, Katherine," I say, and turn back for Ana's room. "Take these," I tell her, sitting down beside her again. She takes the water and the pills from me, and swallows them both down. "Talk to me," I implore. "You told me you were okay. I'd never have left you if I thought you were like this."

She stares fixedly at her hands, and desperately I wish she'd look at me. I need to see those eyes. "I take it that when you said you were okay, you weren't."

Color stains her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. "I thought I was fine," she says. Her voice is scratchy, a little hoarse from the crying.

"Anastasia, you can't tell me what you think I want to hear. That's not very honest," I scold her. "How can I trust anything you've said to me?" If she can't be honest with me, communicate with me, this won't work. It just won't. Finally, she lifts her eyes to mine, and something settles concretely in my stomach. _There you are._

I run both hands through my hair, the anxiety of her lack of honesty overbearing the comfort of seeing her face. "How did you feel while I was hitting you and after?"

"I didn't like it. I'd rather you didn't do it again."

"You weren't meant to like it."

"Why do you like it?" she challenges me.

I'm startled by her question. "You really want to know?" I ask her.

"Oh, trust me, I'm fascinated," she tells me, and I sense the sarcasm in her tone. I bite back my irritation. If she weren't like this, I'd make sure she couldn't sit down for a week and a half.

"Careful." I'll do it if I have to.

She visibly pales at my tone. "Are you going to hit me again?" she asks, and the fear in her tone stops me cold.

"No, not tonight," I promise her, and myself. I realize I can't. Not when she's in this state. She's not strong enough to withstand it again, just yet. I'll have to find other ways to channel my anger for now.

"So," she pushes.

I take in a breath and surge forward into explanation, hoping she doesn't see me for the fucked up son of a bitch I am. "I like the control it gives me, Anastasia. I want you to behave in a particular way, and if you don't, I shall punish you, and you will learn to behave the way I desire. I enjoy punishing you. I've wanted to spank you since you asked me if I was gay."

Her cheeks turn pink at the reverie. "So you don't like the way I am," she assumes aloud.

I stare at her. No. _No._ Hell no! "I think you're lovely the way you are."

"So why are you trying to change me?" she beseeches me, the intensity of her question ringing in those clear blue eyes.

"I don't want to change you. I'd like you to be courteous and to follow the set of rules I've given you and not defy me. Simple." Hopefully that gets across to her.

"But you want to punish me?" she asks.

"Yes, I do."

"That's what I don't understand," she whispers.

I sigh and run my hands through my hair again. I don't know how else to explain it. "It's the way I'm made, Anastasia. I need to control you. I need you to behave in a certain way, and if you don't—I love to watch your beautiful alabaster skin pink and warm up under my hands. It turns me on."

"So it's not the pain you're putting me through?" she asks.

I swallow nervously. "A bit," I admit, "to see if you can take it, but that's not the whole reason. It's the fact that you are mine to do with as I see fit—ultimate control over someone else. And it turns me on. Big time, Anastasia." I pause. "Look, I'm not explaining myself very well… I've never had to before. I've not really thought about this in any great depth. I've always been with like-minded people." I shrug, contrite. "And you still haven't answered my question—how did you feel afterward?"

Mostly, it's just to change the subject. I'm growing uncomfortable explaining myself. Somewhere deep, deep down, I think I'm questioning it myself. I push that thought back. No. This is what I know—who I am.

"Confused," she relents.

By her reaction? "You were sexually aroused by it, Anastasia," I tell her, and close my eyes briefly, against the floodgate of lust. Oh, she was so wet.

When I open my eyes to gaze at her again, her eyes have darkened, her pupils dilating. They're blazing, echoing the lust she must see reflected in my own. "Don't look at me like that," I scold her lowly.

She frowns. "I don't have any condoms, Anastasia, and you know, you're upset. Contrary to what your roommate believes, I'm not a priapic monster. So, you felt confused?" She squirms, but doesn't say a word. "You have no problem being honest with me in print. Your emails always tell me exactly how you feel. Why can't you do that in conversation? Do I intimidate you that much?"

She picks at something on her quilt. "You beguile me, Christian," she murmurs lowly, "Completely overwhelm me. I feel like Icarus flying too close to the sun."

I gasp. That's it. That's what I've been trying to put into words for so long, and have been failing to do so. But here, now, she's read the struggling of my mind, and put words to my thoughts. She's too good for me. I'll never be enough for her, and I've known from the beginning of all of this, that no good will come from this. I'm going to get burned. "Well, I think you've got that the wrong way around," I breathe.

"What?" she asks.

"Oh, Anastasia," I groan, "You've bewitched me. Isn't it obvious?" I give myself over to the honesty. These things have been living deep within me, clawing to free themselves, and now they're out. She knows. She overtakes me, overwhelms me. I feel so out of control around her—and I know that she's the one really in control. She has me under her spell.

She only stares at me, and I'm beginning to feel an uncomfortable itch beneath her lack of response. "You've still not answered my question. Write me an email, please. But right now, I'd really like to sleep. Can I stay?" Suddenly, I realize that I'm exhausted.

"Do you want to stay?" she asks me.

For some reason, I can't answer that. "You wanted me here."

"You haven't answered my question." She's throwing my words back in my face. Her pushiness is irritating me.

"I'll write you an email." I rise to empty my pockets. I set my Blackberry, keys, wallet, and money on her chest of drawers. Beside it I set my watch, and then take off my shoes and socks. I pull my jeans off and throw my jacket over the nearby chair. I walk around to the other side of the bed, and climb in. She's still sitting there, and the fact that I'm lower than her makes me feel insignificant. "Lie down," I tell her.

She lies down slowly, carefully, wincing as her sweatpants chafe against her backside. She doesn't take her eyes off me, and she looks… cautious. Once she's flat on her back, I prop my head on an elbow and gaze down at her. "If you are going to cry, cry in front of me. I need to know," I beg her.

"Do you want me to cry?" she whispers.

"Not particularly," I tell her, "I just want to know how you're feeling. I don't want you slipping through my fingers. Switch the light off," I hurry on before she can read too much into my words. The truth is, I don't want to lose her. I want to be here to reassure her through those dark times, those times where she may change her mind. "It's late, and we both have to work tomorrow." And I have a breakfast meeting.

She obeys my request. "Lie on your side, facing away from me," I tell her lowly, in the dark. I don't want her touching me. I couldn't bear it, now. She rolls over, her back to me, and I pull her flush to my chest. "Sleep, baby." I breathe the order, and then bury my nose in her hair, inhaling her gorgeous scent. I shut my eyes, relaxing against her. Sleep finds me quickly.

.

_Friday May 27 2011_

When I wake after a soundless, dreamless night, Anastasia Steele is very close.

"Good morning," I mumble, and frown when I realize that it's not her who is close, but me. I'm wrapped around her like a vine. "Jesus, even in my sleep I'm drawn to you." Carefully, I extract myself from her, stretching out, taking inventory. I've slept very well; I'm extremely well rested.

As I shift, my morning wood bumps her hip and I know she notices, because her eyes go wide. I grin at her lazily. "Hmm… this has possibilities, but I think we should wait until Sunday." I'm very into delayed gratification. Especially when there are no condoms around. I nuzzle her ear with my nose, gently. I feel, rather than see, her face heat.

"You're very hot," she murmurs.

"You're not so bad yourself," I joke, knowing that's not what she means, and I grind myself softly against her. Hmm…

She turns even redder. I prop myself up on my elbow and study her face for a moment, amused at her innocence. Oh, Anastasia… I plant a soft kiss on her lips.

"Sleep well?" I ask her. She nods, eyes glued to my face. "So did I." I frown. In fact, the last time I slept that well, was the night I spent with her in the Heathman. "Yes, really well." I feel my expression twist into one of surprise. "What's the time?" Suddenly, I'm panicked. It's too light in the room. I never wake to sunlight.

"It's seven thirty."

"Seven thirty… shit." I jump out of bed, scrambling to dress. I'm late! I've never been late a day in my life! "You are such a bad influence on me. I have a meeting. I have to go—I have to be in Portland at eight." That's never going to happen. Shit! Wait. She's smirking at me, oh so amused by my frenzied rush. "Are you smirking at me?"

"Yes," she replies.

I grin, amused by her amusement. "I'm late. I don't do late. Another first, Miss Steele." I yank on my jacket and swoop in to hold either side of her head in my hands. "Sunday." My insides quiver at the prospect. Oh, could it come any slower?

I plant a kiss on her lips, not lingering, because I know I can't. I'm fucking late! "Taylor will come and sort your Beetle. I was serious. Don't drive it. I'll see you at my place on Sunday. I'll email you a time."

I exit her bedroom. The front room is quiet and empty, though the scent of coffee lingers in the air. Miss Kavanagh must be up already. I don't pause to think about it. I head out through the front door, and to the Audi at the curb. Starting the engine, I speed off down the street.

**Hi everyone! Just wanted to leave you all with a quick note. We move into our first house in 2 weeks, so updates are going to be sparse for awhile. I just thought I would let everyone know, so that you all know I haven't gone anywhere! **


	19. Chapter 19

**I've managed to upload another chapter for you all! T-minus 11 days until we move, so I am pretty concretely sure that this will be the last chapter before we're settled in our new place. Between chasing a nearly-walking 10 month around and packing, I don't have much time to write.**

**I will be packing my laptop soon, anyway, so it is safe to assume this will be the last update before May.**

**Please bear with me.**

**I also just wanted to thank you all for your lovely reviews. It makes me so glad to know that many of you see this fic as one of the best you've read of Christian's perspective.**

**That makes me very proud, and inspires me to write even more!**

**I appreciate you all so much!**

**Without further ado, here is chapter 19! **

**.**

_Friday, May 27 2011_

The email reaches my inbox a few minutes after I sit down with the board, to discuss the futures market. It's very dry, and I am glad to have her email as a distraction.

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Assault and Battery: The After-Effects

**Date: **May 27 2011 8:05

**To: **Christian Grey

Dear Mr. Grey,

You wanted to know why I felt confused after you—which euphemism should we apply—spanked, punished, beat, assaulted me. Well, during the whole alarming process, I felt demeaned, debased, and abused. And much to my mortification, you're right, I was aroused, and that was unexpected. As you are well aware, all things sexual are new to me—I only wish I was more experienced and therefore more prepared. I was shocked to feel aroused.

What really worried me was how I felt afterward. And that's more difficult to articulate. I was happy that you were happy. I felt relieved that it wasn't as painful as I thought it would be. And when I was lying in your arms, I felt… sated. But I feel very uncomfortable, guilty even, feeling that way. It doesn't sit well with me, and I'm confused as a result. Does that answer your question?

I hope the world of Mergers and Acquisitions is as stimulating as ever… and that you weren't too late.

Thank you for staying with me.

Ana

…

I feel a lot of conflicting emotions reading her email. Some of them irritate me, other parts please me. She was pleased that I felt pleased, and that is the part that sticks out to me the most. She likes it, and she's taken it in stride quite well. She can't leave now, just when she's become mine—I'm willing to say anything to make her stay.

"Mr. Grey?" Mr. Hanson asks, and I glance up from my Blackberry. "Still with us?"

"Of course, Mr. Hanson," I tell him, "Continue."

Underneath the table, I surreptitiously reply to Ana's email.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Free Your Mind

**Date: **May 27 2011 8:24

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Interesting… if slightly overstated title heading, Miss Steele.

To answer your points:

-I'll go with spanking—as that's what it was.

-So you felt demeaned, debased, abused, and assaulted—how very Tess Durbeyfield of you. I believe it was you who decided on the debasement, if I remember correctly. Do you really feel like this or do you think you ought to feel like this? Two very different things. If that is how you feel, do you think you could just try to embrace these feelings, deal with them, for me? That's what a submissive would do.

-I am grateful for your inexperience. I value it, and I'm only beginning to understand what it means. Simply put… it means that you are mine in every way.

-Yes, you were aroused, which in turn was very arousing, there's nothing wrong with that.

-Happy does not even begin to cover how I felt. Ecstatic joy comes close.

-Punishment spanking hurts far more than sensual spanking—so that's about as hard as it gets, unless, of course, you commit some major transgression, in which case I'll use some implement to punish you with. My hand was very sore. But I like that.

-I felt sated, too—more so than you could ever know.

-Don't waste your energy on guilt, feelings of wrongdoing, etc. We are consenting adults and what we do behind closed doors is between ourselves. You need to free your mind and listen to your body.

-The world of M&amp;A is not nearly as stimulating as you are, Miss Steele.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Consenting Adults!

**Date: **May 27 2011 08:26

**To: **Christian Grey

Aren't you in a meeting?

I'm very glad your hand was sore.

And if I listened to my body, I'd be in Alaska by now.

Ana

P.S.: I will think about embracing these feelings.

…

Her response makes my eyes narrow, though I can't deny the amusement brimming inside. I also note that she will be late for work if she doesn't leave now.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **You Didn't Call the Cops

**Date: **May 27 2011 08:35

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Miss Steele,

I am in a meeting discussing the futures market, if you're really interested.

For the record, you stood beside me knowing what I was going to do.

You didn't at any time ask me to stop—you didn't use either safeword.

You are an adult—you have choices.

Quite frankly, I'm looking forward to the next time my palm is ringing with pain.

You're obviously not listening to the right part of your body.

Alaska is very cold and no place to run. I would find you.

I can track your cell phone—remember?

Go to work.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Stalker

**Date: **May 27 2011 08:36

**To: **Christian Grey

Have you sought therapy for your stalker tendencies?

Ana

…

_Stalker tendencies!_ I don't dwell on the thought long. I'm more worried about her being late for work. As each minute creeps past, she gets closer and closer to being late; and punctuality is something I take pride in.

_You're one to talk. _ I chastise myself silently. I barely made it to the start of my own workday.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Stalker? Me?

**Date: **May 27 2011 08:38

**To: **Anastasia Steele

I pay the eminent Dr. Flynn a small fortune with regard to my stalker and other tendencies.

Go to work.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

As I await her next reply, I glance up at the men around the breakfast table, taking a sip of my coffee. If I have to be honest, I'm a little lost. I hope there haven't been large decisions discussed—because if there have, I'm not aware of them.

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Expensive Charlatans

**Date: **May 27 2011 08:40

**To: **Christian Grey

May I humbly suggest you seek a second opinion? I am not sure that Dr. Flynn is very effective.

Miss Steele

…

Oh, now she's being formal.

Inwardly, I sigh, knowing this conversation has the potential to drag out even further, and it's twenty to nine now. She will need to speed, in order to make it to work on time, and I do not approve.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Second Opinions

**Date: **May 27 2011 08:43

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Not that it's any of your business, humble or otherwise, but Dr. Flynn is the second opinion.

You will have to speed, in your new car, putting yourself at unnecessary risk—I think that's against the rules.

GO TO WORK.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **SHOUTY CAPITALS

**Date: **May 27 2011 08:47

**To: **Christian Grey

As the object of your stalker tendencies, I think it is my business, actually.

I haven't signed yet. So rules, schmules. And I don't start until 9:30.

Miss Steele

…

My anxiety over her being late abates. She's got more time than I thought. I find myself amused at her teasing about not having signed yet. _Oh baby, just wait until Sunday._ We'll see what she has to say about the rules then.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Descriptive Linguistics

**Date: **May 27 2011 08:49

**To: **Anastasia Steele

"Schmules"? Not sure where that appears in Webster's Dictionary.

Christian Grey,

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Descriptive Linguistics

**Date: **May 27 2011 08:52

**To: **Christian Grey

It's between control freak and stalker.

And descriptive linguistics is a hard limit for me.

Will you stop bothering me now?

I'd like to go to work in my new car.

Ana

…

Control freak? Stalker? _Bothering her_? Oh, I could show her how hot and bothered I could make her, and that fine, fine behind. Alas, I am glad she is heading out.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Challenging but Amusing Young Women

**Date: **May 27 2011 08:56

**To: **Anastasia Steele

My palm is twitching.

Drive safely, Miss Steele.

Christian Grey,

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

I slip my Blackberry into my pocket, and return my attention to the meeting at hand.

.

In between meetings I can't but help to think about how much more open Ana is in her emails. I want her to be able to communicate that way with me at all times and that ancient phone of hers lacks email capabilities, not to mention security features. I make a call to Taylor and inform him of what I want. Things are sorted quickly, and he tells me they'll have it delivered to Miss Steele's workplace by noon.

"Good."

"Will that be all, Sir?" he inquires.

"Yes." I hang up. I compose a quick email to Ana.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Blackberry ON LOAN

**Date: **May 27 2011 11:15

**To: **Anastasia Steele

I need to be able to contact you at all times, and since this is your most honest form of communication, I figured you needed a Blackberry.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

.

I am just walking onto the launchpad when I receive Anastasia's response email, and, of course, she is upset about my buying her something else. I roll my eyes at her petulance. _Get used to it, Anastasia._

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Consumerism Gone Mad

**Date: **May 27 2011 13:22

**To: **Christian Grey

I think you need to call Dr. Flynn right now.

Your stalker tendencies are running wild.

I am at work. I will email you when I get home.

Thank you for yet another gadget.

I wasn't wrong when I said you were the ultimate consumer.

Why do you do this?

Ana

…

At least she's said 'thank you'.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Sagacity from One So Young

**Date: **May 27 2011 13:24

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Fair point well made, as ever, Miss Steele.

Dr. Flynn is on vacation.

And I do this because I can.

Christian Grey,

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

After I finish my response, I climb into the pilot seat of Charlie Tango, secure myself, and complete the pre-flight checks before contacting air traffic control and taking off.

I have mixed feelings about my return to Seattle. On one hand, I'm excited to see Mia. It's been too long, and I've been worried about her. God knows how much trouble that one can get into, gallivanting off in Europe. On the other, I don't like to be leaving Anastasia so far behind.

But then I remember that she moves tomorrow, and relief comes quickly. It will only be for today that I need to worry about her.

.

It is past ten o' clock on Friday evening, and Anastasia has not replied to my confirmation email I sent early in the afternoon. I'm pacing the floor, enraged.

The anxiety has morphed into anger. I'm past the fact that she could be in danger—she has, in fact, done this before.

Now, I'm mad. Really fucking mad. I'm her Dom. She has no right to act this way with me. I know she got off work hours ago, and she promised me she would email me when she got home. I've called her numerous times, and left a message. She hasn't answered me. I have half a mind to fly back to Portland, but that's not very practical, now is it?

I stalk over to my Blackberry, snatching it up off the kitchen island, where it sits next to my glass of wine.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Where Are You?

**Date: **May 27 2011 22:14

**To: **Anastasia Steele

"_I am at work. I will email you when I get home."_

Are you still at work or have you packed your phone, Blackberry, and MacBook?

Call me, or I may be forced to call Elliot.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

I sit back and wait for her reply, raking both my hands through my hair. I am nearly shaking with anger. I don't know where she is. She's left me in the dark again. I thought this would all change once she agreed to our arrangement, but it hasn't. She needs to learn her lesson...

My Blackberry rings suddenly, it makes me jump. When I glance down at the screen, I see its Anastasia, and relief floods my body so abruptly, it leaves me weak. My anger dissipates into thin air, and I realize that I've been worried about her—not so much angry with her.

"Hi," I answer, and my voice is quiet with respite.

"Hi," she replies.

"I was worried about you," I tell her.

"I know. I'm sorry I didn't reply, but I'm fine."

Suddenly, I'm irked that she's fine. There's no excuse. She doesn't have a reason for why she's been ignoring me, and I'm hurt.

"Did you have a pleasant evening?" I ask her. I'm aware I sound a little crisp.

"Yes," she says, "We finished packing and Kate and I had Chinese takeout with Jose."

I feel my entire face tighten at the sound of that name, but I force myself not to say anything.

"How about you?"

There are so many things I could say about her spending time with the photographer. I don't like it. Not one fucking bit. Now that I'm her Dom, I could order her not to. I want all of her time, all of her, all of myself. I don't like sharing; and I know that this boy has feelings for her. Who's to say, he won't pull that bullshit he pulled at the bar that night, again?

I sigh, releasing the breath I didn't realize I've been holding. "I went to a fund-raising dinner," I tell her, recalling the long, tense, boring evening. I spent most of it out in the corridor trying to get ahold of Anastasia. I barely participated in the proceedings, which is very unlike me. "It was deathly dull. I left as soon as I could."

It's very quiet for a moment; I wonder what she's thinking.

"I wish you were here," she whispers finally.

"Do you?"

"Yes."

Why don't I believe her? Why would she want me? After this evening, I know she has the capability to have enough fun without me. What the fuck do I have in me that she'd ever miss or long for? There's so much about her that I miss right now. Her beauty, those wide blue eyes, her scent, her quick wit, the disarming nature of her charm… To have had her at my side this evening would have been—I stop myself, alarmed at the direction my thoughts have taken.

I exhale slowly. "I'll see you Sunday?"

"Yes, Sunday," she says quietly.

"Good night," I tell her.

"Good night, Sir."

I gasp, shocked at the way she's addressed me, surprised by the thrill it zaps through my body. I can feel myself stirring in my pants. Shit, why does it turn me on so much when she calls me 'Sir'?

"Good luck with your move tomorrow, Anastasia," I say, forcing composure. There's a beat of silence.

"You hang up," she whispers, and her words make me grin—I can't help it.

"No, you hang up," I reply, feeling the way my smile threatens to crack my face in half. We're like a couple of teenagers.

"I don't want to," she says.

"Neither do I," I tell her honestly, and something tightens in my chest. I suppress the unfamiliar, frightening feeling.

"Were you very angry with me?" she asks me now.

"Yes," I say, honest once more.

"Are you still?"

"No."

"So you're not going to punish me?"

"No. I'm an in-the-moment kind of guy." Sunday is light years away from now, and though I wanted to punish her for most of the evening, the urge has disintegrated upon hearing her voice, knowing that she's okay.

"I've noticed," she says dryly.

I smirk. "You can hang up now, Miss Steele," I tell her, simply because I don't know if I'll be able. I'd like to sit on the phone with her all night.

"Do you really want me to, Sir?"

Internally, I groan. That word… Fuck, what it does to me. "Go to bed, Anastasia," I order her.

"Yes, Sir."

I can't bring myself to hang up, and apparently neither can she, even after I've asked her to. "Do you ever think you'll be able to do what you're told?" I demand of her, and though I'm annoyed, I'm entertained at the same time.

"Maybe," she says, "We'll see after Sunday."

The line goes silent. I pull the phone away from my ear, staring down at it for a moment. _Yes, Sunday…_

.

_Saturday, May 28 2011 – very early morning_

I see Mia before she sees me, but when she does, her grin nearly splits her face in half, and she's rushing toward me, looping her arms around my neck, hugging me tight.

"Welcome home, Mia," I tell her, smirking at her enthusiasm as I pull back from her embrace.

"Oh, I'm so glad to be home!" she enthuses, pulling back. "I've missed you, Christian. I've missed everyone!"

"And everyone has missed you. Shall we get your baggage?"

"Aw, Christian—that's the closest you've ever come to saying you missed me."

.

The IHOP smells of pancakes, bacon, and maple syrup—as always. It's early—too early—as a waitress directs us to a booth in the back.

"Can I get you two something to drink?"

"Coffee for two," I tell her. She trounces off to get our mugs.

"So," I say, propping my elbows on the table and appraising my little sister, whom I am very fond of. "How was Paris?" As a little boy I was lost until Mia showed up when my parents adopted her. 'Mia' was my first word, once I started speaking again. She's always been my constant.

Before Elena, she was the only reason I considered stopping fighting. But it was the only way to sate the hunger, the clawing emptiness I felt inside me. Though I loved Mia, she wasn't enough to stop it.

"Paris was amazing!" Mia raves, and she's babbling about everything she did between landing there and taking off to come home. I listen to her intently, only because she's my sister. It's not the topic I'm interested in, really.

The waitress returns with our coffees, and I take a sip. I slept a bit before having to wake to leave for the airport, but not very deeply, and by no means long enough. It seems I'm starting my day at 3am. I'm going to need more coffee.

"Christian, you seem distracted," she tells me now, as she stirs sugar and cream into her coffee.

I shake my head. "Do I?"

She nods, eyeing me suspiciously. "Have you met someone?"

I groan. "Have you talked to Mom?"

"No!" she cries, wide-eyed and sincere. "Not a word." She points at me, her eyes narrowing as she nods her head. "A sister knows. You've met a girl, and she's important enough to occupy your mind."

I snort, shaking my head indulgently. If only she knew.

She lifts her eyebrows at me, daring me to deny it.

"Anastasia is an amazing woman, there's something about her…" I trail off, staring down into my coffee.

"Anastasia. What a beautiful name. What does she look like?" Mia inquires.

"Long brown hair, big blue eyes, gorgeous alabaster skin. She's always blushing. She's beautiful, Mia." My smile falters when I realize what I've said. Since when do I become such a gossip? I don't volunteer information about my private life like this.

She's grinning at me now, like the Cheshire cat. "Oh, Christian."

"Do not 'Oh, Christian' me," I snap at her. "She's just… It's new, and I've never done anything like this before."

To Mia, this is reasonable. I've never brought a girl home before, so what's it to her? For all she knows, this could be my first conquest ever. Deeper down, I'm thinking about the 'More', and that word is rolling itself over in my mind again, and again, and again…

.


	20. Chapter 20

_Sunday, May 29 2011_

I wake after a very restless night to a drab, gray morning. It looks like rain, but I set out for a run anyway. My insides are burning with anticipation.

Today is the day and I am unbelievably excited. I barely notice the time slip by and by the time I return to the apartment, I realize that I've been gone for nearly two hours. Quickly, I shower and dress.

Mrs. Jones has left some sort of breakfast casserole in the fridge, and as I warm some on a plate in the microwave, I type a quick email to Anastasia, remembering she's very stubbornly insisted on driving herself today.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **My Life in Numbers

**Date: **May 29 2011 08:04

**To: **Anastasia Steele

If you drive you'll need this access code for the underground garage at Escala: 146963.

Park in bay five—it's one of mine.

Code for the elevator: 1880.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

As I sit down at the breakfast bar with my coffee and breakfast my Blackberry pings with her reply.

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **An Excellent Vintage

**Date: **May 29 2011 08:08

**To: **Christian Grey

Yes, Sir. Understood.

Thank you for the champagne and the blow-up _Charlie Tango,_ which is now tied to my bed.

Ana

…

Ah, so she received my housewarming present. I find myself distracted momentarily, by the thought of things tied to her bed…

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Envy

**Date: **May 29 2011 08:11

**To: **Anastasia Steele

You're welcome.

Don't be late.

Lucky _Charlie Tango_.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

.

Most of my morning passes in painful expectation. I am aching to have Anastasia here with me. Under me. Wrapped around me. I distract myself by getting some work done, and it seems to help. Time and time again, my thoughts wander to the playroom upstairs, and what waits there…

By the time Ana arrives I'm sitting in the living room reading the Sunday papers. Inside I'm wild with anxiety, but I won't dare let her see that. I'm surprised by the intensity of my apprehension. I've never felt this way with any of my other submissives. Why is Anastasia so different?

I hear the elevator ping, announcing her arrival.

"Good afternoon, Miss Steele," I hear Taylor greet her.

"Oh, please, call me Ana," she cajoles playfully, and my eyes narrow just slightly. Why is she being so friendly with him?

"Ana. Mr. Grey is expecting you."

I look up when they enter the living area. Anastasia looks amazing. She's dressed in that amazing burgundy dress, and high heels. Her lashes are long and luscious. Fuck, she's so beautiful.

I stand and move toward her, watching the way she stares at me. Her eyes are wide, her lips slightly parted. It's clear she's as affected by me as I am by her, and the thought makes me smirk.

"Hmm… that dress," I murmur, aware that I'm thinking aloud. I drink in the sight of her. My, she is a fine sight. "Welcome back, Miss Steele." I grip her chin in my fingers, and bend to plant a soft kiss on her lips. Hmm… they are so soft and pouty and full beneath my own… As I pull back, I hear her breath spike.

"Hi," she whispers, that beautiful pink color flooding her cheeks.

"You're on time," I tell her, "I like punctual. Come." I grip her hand in mine, and pull her toward the couch, where I've left the papers, eager to show her my discovery. "I wanted to show you something."

We sit, and I hand the paper to her, open to the photograph of us from her graduation. The first time I've ever been photographed with a woman. She reads the caption.

_Christian Grey and friend at the graduation ceremony at WSU Vancouver._

She laughs. "So I'm your 'friend' now," she observes.

_Friend…_ I think of the fact that I've been introduced to her father as Anastasia's boyfriend. Yes, I suppose friends would suffice. I enjoy spending time with her, so I suppose we could be friends.

"So it would appear. And it's in the newspaper, so it must be true," I quip, smirking. I can't help it, I need to touch her. I reach over from where I'm sitting beside her and tuck a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. It curls subtly at the end. "So, Anastasia," I say, aware my voice is low and full of need, "You have a much better idea of what I'm about since you were last here."

"Yes," she agrees.

"And yet you've returned." The thought elates me.

She nods. I want her, now. Forget the fact we haven't eaten, the need to fuck her is very apparent, and I can feel the emotion smoldering in my eyes. Knowing that she's aware of everything about me, what scum I am, what a fucking messed up sonofabitch I am, and she's still here… It turns me on.

"Have you eaten?" _Please say yes, please say yes._

"No," she admits, and irritation sparks in my belly.

"Are you hungry?" I ask, desperate to hide the annoyance on my face. I'll need to feed her first, then.

"Not for food," she breathes.

_Shit._ I lean toward her, my lips at her ear. "You are as eager as ever, Miss Steele, and just to let you in on a little secret, so am I. But Dr. Greene is due here shortly." As I say the words, I'm reminding myself as well. "I wish you'd eat," I scold her, but I force myself to keep it light. I'm in too good a mood right now.

"What can you tell me about Dr. Greene?" she asks, and the question is kind of random.

"She's the best ob-gyn in Seattle. What more can I say?" Honestly, there's not much more I know about her. I've hired her simply for the sake of Anastasia's benefit.

"I thought I was seeing your doctor, and don't tell me you're really a woman, because I won't believe you."

Har de har har.

"I think it's more appropriate that you see a specialist. Don't you?" She nods.

Speaking of the specialized female doctors of Seattle… Oh, yes. My mother. I frown now, recalling the phone call she made to me earlier this morning. "Anastasia, my mother would like you to come for dinner this evening. I believe Elliot is asking Kate, too. I don't know how you feel about that. It will be odd for me to introduce you to my family."

"Are you ashamed of me?" she asks, and she sounds hurt.

Me? Ashamed of her? I would have thought it would have been the other way around.

"Of course not." That question is one of the most ridiculous things I've ever heard. How could I ever be ashamed of her? She's one of the most amazing women I've ever had the honor to meet. And she's mine. All mine. My thoughts darken lustfully at the realization.

"Why is it odd?" she asks me now, shattering the arousing direction of my thoughts.

"Because I've never done it before." _Another first._

"Why are you allowed to roll your eyes, and I'm not?" she demands.

I blink at her. "I wasn't aware that I was."

"Neither am I, usually," she barks at me.

Why, the nerve of her, to use that tone with me! I feel my eyes narrow at her, but before I can do anything about it, Taylor steps into the doorway.

"Dr. Greene is here, sir," he announces.

"Show her up to Miss Steele's room," I tell him.

He nods and ducks out to do as I've told him.

"Ready for some contraception?" I ask her. I stand and hold my hand out toward her.

"You're not going to come as well, are you?" she asks, gasping. It's apparent she's surprised.

I laugh at the idea. "I'd pay very good money to watch, believe me, Anastasia, but I don't think the good doctor would approve."

She slips her hand into mine, and I help her to her feet, pulling her to me. I press my lips to hers, kissing her hard, passionately. Her hands are on my upper arms, one of mine in her hair, holding her face to mine. I press my forehead to hers. "I'm so glad you're here. I can't wait to get you naked."

.

Dr. Greene is waiting in Anastasia's room, and she stands when we walk in. "Mr. Grey," she greets me, shaking my hand quickly and formally. She has a firm, warm grip.

"I appreciate you coming on such short notice," I tell her.

"Thank you for making it worth my while, Mr. Grey. Miss Steele," she greets Anastasia, smiling at her.

They shake hands, and after Dr. Greene gives me a very meaningful, pointed stare, I decide this is my cue to leave them to it.

"I'll be downstairs," I tell Anastasia, and I leave, closing the door behind me.

.

While I wait for the doctor and Anastasia to finish with their appointment, I turn on 'Villa Lobos', a beautiful aria. It always calms me to listen to it.

I set the breakfast bar for lunch, knowing it will motivate me to force ourselves to eat before we do anything else.

Sitting down on the couch, I pick up the paper again, flipping over to the business section.

Awhile later, they step into the room, and I gaze up at them expectantly. "Are you done?"

I lower the volume of the music and stand, walking toward them, where they stand in the doorway of the great room.

"Yes, Mr. Grey," Dr. Greene tells me, "Look after her; she's a beautiful, bright young woman."

I'm a little taken aback by her words. How forward of her to say such a thing. Plus, it's a little transparent, as if she knows exactly what I have in store for Anastasia. Finally, after a brief moment, I manage to recover some composure. "I fully intend to," I tell her. Anastasia shrugs at me.

"I'll send you my bill," Dr. Greene tells me, ever formal, and shakes my hand once more.

"Good day, and good luck to you, Ana," she says, and smiles at her. They shake hands as well. Taylor steps into the room to lead Dr. Greene out. After they leave, I turn toward Anastasia.

"How was that?"

"Fine, thank you. She said that I had to abstain from all sexual activity for the next four weeks."

My stomach free falls to the floor, and I feel my jaw drop. What? How can that be? I am filled with dread, my mood plummeting.

Suddenly, Anastasia's face splits into a huge grin. "Gotcha!" she cries.

Oh my. What a jokester I have on my hands. Well, two can play at that game. I narrow my eyes at her, giving her the most foreboding glare I can manage. I see the reaction I've been hoping for on her face. All the humor drains from her eyes, and she pales slightly.

"Gotcha!" I tell her, smirking down at her. I grip her around her perfect, tiny waist and pull her tight to me. "You are incorrigible, Miss Steele." I stare down into her eyes, braiding my fingers into her long, silken hair, holding her head in place. I lean down to kiss her deeply. A moment later, I force myself to pull away, just slightly, leaving my lips against hers.

"As much as I'd like to take you here and now, you need to eat and so do I. I don't want you passing out on me later."

"Is that all you want me for—my body?"

"That and your smart mouth." I kiss her again, sucking her bottom lip between mine, tasting the deliciousness. I slip my tongue into her mouth, tangling it with hers for a moment. I can feel my body beginning to respond, my length stirring in my pants, and I release her quickly, leading her over to the kitchen.

Eat. We need to eat. First things first.

"What's the music?" she inquires.

"'Villa Lobos,' an aria from _Bachianas Brasileiras._ Good, isn't it?"

"Yes."

I pull the lunch Mrs. Jones has prepared for us. "Chicken Caesar salad okay with you?" I ask her.

"Yes, fine, thank you," she says.

I set to preparing the meal, and I notice her watching me. She seems lost in thought, and desperately, I wish to know what's on her mind.

"What are you thinking?" I ask her.

She blushes. "I was just watching the way you move."

Amused, I feel one of my eyebrows lift. "And?"

The pink in her face turns deeper. "You're very graceful."

"Why thank you, Miss Steele." I sit down beside her, a bottle of wine in my hand. "Chablis?"

"Please."

"Help yourself to salad," I urge her. "Tell me—what method did you opt for?" I'm dying to know.

She seems a little surprised by my question, but I have the right to know, don't I?

"Mini pill," she finally tells me.

I frown. Can she be trusted to remember to take it every day? It's not as effective if she misses taking it every once in a while. And I need it to be at its peak height of effectiveness. "And will you remember to take it regularly, at the right time, every day?" I demand of her.

She blushes again. "I'm sure you'll remind me," she tells me, and I detect an undercurrent of sarcasm in her tone.

That smart mouth of hers… "I'll put an alarm on my calendar," I quip. "Eat."

She does, obediently, and I am pleased. For once, she actually eats her entire meal, even going as far as to finish before I do. The salad is delicious, especially paired with the wine. I wonder if she's eating so fast, because she's just keen to move onto the next event of the day.

"Eager as ever, Miss Steele?" I ask, and I can't help but grin down at her emptied plate. Not a stitch of lettuce left.

She gazes at me, those full lashes batting. "Yes."

Oh, fuck. My breath spikes as the combined wavelengths of our arousal fills the room, coloring it a dark, stirring red. I stand, moving to close the distance between us, and I pull her off her seat, into my embrace.

"Do you want to do this?" I ask her.

"I haven't signed anything," she protests, her voice quiet.

"I know—but I'm breaking all the rules these days." All I want to do right now, is fuck her. I don't know how much longer I can wait. I don't know if I can even make it up to the playroom.

"Are you going to hit me?" she asks.

"Yes, but it won't be to hurt you. I don't want to punish you right now. If you'd caught me yesterday evening, well, that would have been a different story. Don't let anyone try to convince you otherwise, Anastasia. One of the reasons people like me do this is because we either like to give or receive pain. It's very simple. You don't, so I spent a great deal of time yesterday thinking about that." I pull her closer, so she can feel the way she's affecting me, against her.

"Did you reach any conclusions?" she whispers, and I know she can feel the way my erection is pressing against her stomach.

"No, and right now, I just want to tie you up and fuck you senseless. Are you ready for that?" My body is on fire.

"Yes."

"Good. Come."

.

I open the door to the playroom, stepping back to allow her entrance first. She steps inside, and I can feel that heady, high feeling zipping through my veins, subtly at first, but growing more potent by the second. In my playroom, I'm in charge, and Ana is my submissive, no questions asked. I gaze down at her, beyond hard; unbelievably turned on. I need to get her naked. Now. But first, some ground rules.

"When you're in here, you are completely mine. To do with as I see fit. Do you understand?" I whisper to her.

Silently, she nods.

"Take your shoes off," I order her. The less hazards, the better.

I watch her swallow, and she does as I have asked. _Yes, Anastasia. Do exactly as I say._ Once they're off, I pick her shoes up and put them by the door.

"Good. Don't hesitate when I ask you to do something. Now I'm going to peel you out of that dress. Something I've wanted to do for a few days, if I recall. I want you to be comfortable with your body, Anastasia. You have a beautiful body, and I like to look at it. It is a joy to behold. In fact, I could gaze at you all day, and I want you unembarrassed and unashamed of your nakedness. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she says.

"Yes, what?" I demand.

"Yes, Sir."

_Hmm… What those words do to me._ "Do you mean that?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. Lift your arms up over your head."

She lifts them, and I reach down to grip the hem of her dress in my hands. Slowly, I sweep the dress up over her amazing, flawless body, and over her head. I step back to admire the view before me. She's wearing a pale blue brasserie and panty set, clearly just for today, for me. I take a moment to appreciate that as I idly fold her dress. I abandon it on the chest by the door, knowing we'll have no use for it. When I turn back, she's biting her lip, and I reach up to tug it from her teeth's grasp.

"You're biting your lip. You know what that does to me," I tell her, "Turn around."

She does without pause, and I unclip her bra, sliding it off, skimming my fingers over the length of her arms, knowing my touch will set her skin on fire. Her back is completely bare, a span of gorgeous, impeccable porcelain skin. I examine it for a long moment, and then gather her hair at the nape of her neck, and tug so that she tilts her head to one side. I run my nose down the exposed column of her throat, inhaling her scent, all the way down to her shoulder, and then all the way back up to her ear.

Oh, the sweet, sweet scent of Anastasia Steele… It does things to me. "You smell as divine as ever, Anastasia," I tell her, and kiss her behind the ear.

Softly, she moans.

"Quiet. Don't make a sound." I begin to braid her hair and secure it with the hair tie I've kept in the pocket of my jeans. I tug firmly, and she steps back against my chest. "I like your hair braided in here," I whisper to her. I release her and order her to turn around.

She does, and I can hear that her breathing has quickened. I don't know if it's because she's afraid, or if it's because she's aroused. The flush in her cheeks tells me it must be the latter. "When I tell you to come in here, this is how you will dress," I tell her, "Just in your panties. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she breathes.

"Yes, what?" I urge.

"Yes, Sir," she whispers.

I feel the tug of a smirk at the corner of my lips. "Good girl. When I tell you to come in here, I expect you to kneel over there." I point to the usual place by the door. "Do it now."

She stares at me for just a moment, blinks, and then obeys my command, a little clumsily.

"You can sit back on your heels." She does. "Place your hands and forearms flat on your thighs." She does. "Good. Now part your knees." She eases them barely an inch apart. "Wider," I urge, and she inches them another millimeter or so. "Wider." She parts them another couple of inches. "Perfect. Look down at the floor."

Her gaze falls, and I admire the lovely Anastasia Steele, in utter submissive position. Hmm… The sight has never turned me on so much. I walk over to her, reach down, and yank on her braid so that her head tilts back and I can see her face again.

"Will you remember this position, Anastasia?" I ask her.

"Yes, Sir," she murmurs.

"Good. Stay here, don't move." I leave her kneeling and head downstairs. I walk through my bedroom and to the closet, where I pull off my shirt and switch my pants for the ratty pair of jeans I wear in my playroom. On my way back, I grab a robe and upon returning to the playroom, hang it on the back of the door.

Anastasia is where I've left her, kneeling, gaze downcast. "Good girl, Anastasia. You look lovely like that. Well done. Stand up."

She does, but she doesn't look at me. "You may look at me," I tell her softly.

She's adjusting to this quite well—I'm impressed. Her eyes lift to my face, that wonderful, depthless blue, and I gaze back at her, awed at her magnificence.

"I'm going to chain you now, Anastasia. Give me your right hand," I ask of her.

She lifts it, and I flip it so her palm faces up. I flick the middle of her palm with the brown riding crop I've been holding in my right hand—not hard, just firm enough that she'll feel a sting. "How does that feel?" I inquire, staring at her face intently. It hasn't registered a thing, not a reaction, not an emotion. Nothing.

She blinks at me, bemused.

"Answer me."

"Okay," she finally says, and her lips turn down into a frown.

"Don't frown," I demand.

She blinks, and her face is emotionless again.

"Did that hurt?" I ask her. She's giving nothing away.

"No," she answers.

_Good._ "This is not going to hurt. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she says, but she sounds unsure.

"I mean it," I tell her sincerely. I hold the riding crop out so she can see it. Brown plaited leather.

Her eyes flick up to mine. She's shocked, and I can feel the lust and amusement reflecting back from my own.

I'm broaching this with the tiniest realm of familiarity she has. Hopefully it will warm her to it. "We aim to please, Miss Steele. Come." I grip her under the elbow and lead her to beneath the grid. I've had it designed so I can move a submissive to anywhere in the room I please. I reach up for the black leather shackles and pull them down.

"This grid is designed so the shackles move across the grid," I tell her. I watch her gaze trace the maze the grid makes.

"We're going to start here, but I want to fuck you standing up. So we'll end up by the wall over there." I gesture with the riding crop toward the St. Andrew's Cross on the other end of the room. "Put your hands above your head," I order her.

She lifts them, and knowing full well that she can't touch me, I step up close to her. I fasten first her left wrist, and then the right, into the restraints. Finished, I step back to admire my handiwork.

Oh my fuck. She looks…edible. All tied up, with nowhere to go, completely at my mercy. I pace around her leisurely, admiring every inch of her. She really is a fine specimen of a woman.

"You look mighty fine trussed up like this, Miss Steele," I tell her. "And your smart mouth quiet for now. I like that." I'm back in front of her now, and I reach for her panties, pulling them over her hips and down her legs slowly, slowly, teasing her. Kneeling, I stare intently into her eyes as I crumple them up and hold them to my nose, inhaling deep the smell of her arousal. Mmm… I grin at her, registering the shock on her face, the way her lips part in surprise, and I tuck her underwear into my pocket.

I stand, trailing the crop lazily around her navel. As I do so, she trembles, and a short gasp exits her mouth. Oh, she likes this. I walk around her once more, dragging the crop around her tiny, perfectly defined waist. On my second circle, I flick the crop underneath her mighty fine ass, against her arousal.

She cries out, loudly, and pulls against her restraints, the chains rattling softly.

"Quiet," I whisper in command, though hearing her so responsive turns me on. I walk around her once more, trailing the crop a little higher now. She absorbs the swat the second time I hit her, not crying out, though her body still shudders. I move around to her front now, flicking the end of the crop against her right nipple, and she throws her head back. I flick the left as well, and I watch her nipples harden and lengthen in response to the short blows.

She moans loudly, pulling at the cuffs again.

"Does that feel good?" I breathe. My mouth is dry, and I swallow soundlessly. Oh fucking my. This is so hot, hotter than I ever remember it being before. There's just something about Anastasia Steele… Here, in my playroom, in my domain, under my command.

"Yes," she replies.

I swat her in the ass now, harder, and a moment later, I see the red line it leaves. Very nice. "Yes, what?" I demand.

"Yes, Sir," she keens.

I stop in front of her, and find that her eyes are closed, absorbing the sensations, I assume. I flick the crop in small, quick bites, down the center of her belly, through her pubic hair, and I swat her clitoris.

She cries out loudly at the assault. "Oh… please!"

"Quiet," I snap at her, and I swat her once more on her behind. I trail the crop around again, dragging it through her pubic hair, down over her clitoris, to her entrance. I can see the glistening of her arousal against that sweet, pink flesh of hers, and it turns me on like no other.

She likes this. She's enjoying this. It's turning her on, too.

"See how wet you are for this, Anastasia," I tell her, eyes on her face again. Her eyes are still shut. "Open your eyes and your mouth."

She opens first her eyes, though they remain hooded. Her pupils are dilated, the blue of her irises darkened by lust. When she parts her lips, I push the tip of the riding crop into her mouth, so that she can taste herself.

"See how you taste. Suck. Suck hard, baby."

Her eyes locked on mine, she sucks the taste of herself off the end of the crop. Shit, she is so hot. So mine. I pull the crop from her mouth and step forward, kissing her deeply, hard, pushing my tongue into her mouth so that I can taste her, too. I wrap my arms around her, pulling her to me. "Oh, Anastasia, you taste mighty fine. Shall I make you come?"

"Please."

I swat her behind once more. She will learn soon enough.

"Please, what?" I push.

"Please, Sir."

I grin at her. Those words will never get old. "With this?" I ask, holding the crop up. Like her dream? A dream, which has become one of my own—at least during the daytime.

"Yes, Sir," she begs.

"Are you sure?" I tease.

"Yes, please, Sir."

"Close your eyes," I order her. This way, she'll feel the sensations better, more intensely. I begin flicking down her belly again, noting that her skin has pinked under the lick of the crop. I head south, through her pubic hair, softening the crop against her clitoris, one, two, three times, and she explodes. That's all it takes.

She falls apart in front of me, moaning, and crying out loudly through her orgasm. When she's finished, she sags against the restraints, weakened, and I wrap my own arms around her to support her weight. She whines softly, her head on my chest. I lift her, sliding her backwards across the room, toward the cross. I'm going to fuck her now. I've waited long enough. My cock is throbbing after that show. Quickly, I flick open the buttons of my jeans, freeing my erection, and slide on a condom, then my hands are on her again, wrapping around her thighs, lifting her, level with my hips.

"Lift your legs, baby, wrap them around me," I urge her.

She does, and I know she's weak, but I have to give her credit. She's doing so well.

I ram myself inside of her, and that familiar, tight, wet territory, which I'm slowly getting used to, consumes me. I can't bite back my moan as she wraps herself around me, so soft, so smooth. I barely hear her cry out. I think I'm having an out of body experience. The circumstances are overwhelming. I can't believe we're finally fucking doing this. I thrust into her, again and again, my face buried in her neck. Her smell, her body, the atmosphere of the room all surrounds me, and I can hear my breath growing harsher, more ragged. Soon after, she comes apart once more, and her orgasm triggers my own. I call out through clenched jaw as I come, emptying myself into her.

I pull out of her, and set her against the cross, supporting her body with my own, knowing she'll be feeling exhausted now, though I'd like to go again. I free her from the cuffs, and pull her onto my lap as we sink to the floor. Her head lolls against my chest, but for some reason, I'm not bothered by it.

"Well done, baby," I congratulate her, "Did that hurt?"

"No," she whispers.

"Did you expect it to?" I ask, pushing a few curling strands of hair off her face, which have escaped her braid.

"Yes," she whispers again, completely honest.

"You see, most of your fear is in your head, Anastasia." I hesitate for a moment, fearful of the answer this next question might trigger: "Would you do it again?"

She's quiet for a moment, thinking, I assume. Finally, barely audible, she says: "Yes."

Joy explodes in my chest like a firecracker, and I hug her tightly against me. "Good. So would I." I lean down and kiss the top of her head, over the moon. She's holding up better than I thought she would. "And I haven't finished with you yet."

We're quiet for another moment, and then she moves, just slightly, her face turning into my chest, her nose brushing against my skin—NO! I feel every muscle in my body clench against the feeling. No, no, no. I bite back the metallic tang of panic rising in the back of my throat.

She pulls back slightly, opening her eyes to look up at me. "Don't," I whisper to her, and I'm surprised there's any sound to the word. I can't bear it. I try to ignore the panicked, horrendous, overwhelming thoughts surfacing inside my mind.

Blood floods her cheeks, and she glances down at my chest. _Please, please don't touch me again. No more, please. I can't bear it._

"Kneel by the door," I tell her, and I sit back, releasing her. I am overwhelmed by the need to fuck her again. I am surprised by the intensity of my sudden, flaming need for it. But who am I to turn it down?

She does as she's been told, and I stand, removing the condom. I tie it up, then tuck myself away again, but not for long. I walk leisurely over to the dresser, dispose of the condom, and retrieve what I need next before crossing over to where she is bowed over. Her shoulders are slumped, and I catch a glance of her face. Her eyes are drooping, as if she were about to fall asleep. The site is unexpectedly amusing.

"Boring you, am I, Miss Steele?" Somewhere deep down, I know I should let her sleep, but I'm not thinking about her right now. I need to fuck her; I need to be inside of her again.

She jerks to attention. She really is very tired.

"Stand up."

She staggers to her feet and eyes me. I can see the exhaustion in her face. "You're shattered, aren't you?" She nods, blushing.

"Stamina, Miss Steele." Maybe now she'll rethink the exercise clause. "I haven't had my fill of you yet. Hold out your hands in front as if you're praying."

She presses her palms together, and I smirk to myself, enjoying my own private joke as I produce one of the cable ties she helped me purchase at Claytons a couple of weeks ago. As I fasten it firmly around her wrists, her gaze flies to mine, shocked.

"Look familiar?" I tease her, and try as I may, I can't hide my grin. She looks significantly less exhausted now. "I have scissors here," I assure her, holding them up so that she can see them. "I can cut you out of this in a moment."

I watch as she flexes her wrists, testing her bounds.

"Come," I command softly, taking her bound hands to lead her over to the four poster bed. The need to fuck her again is roaring in my chest now, like some sort of demon, or monster. I can no longer ignore it. "I want more—much, much more. But I'll make this quick. You're tired. Hold on to the post."

We are standing at the foot of the bed now, and I watch her frown as she processes my words. I barely register her expression. Honestly, the need in me is so strong, I don't even care that she's non-plussed by my request. I need to fuck her badly. Now. Hard. Fast. I need to chase away this roaring, burning, crowding, too loud sensation in my chest. I need to let it out, and this is the only way I know how.

Anastasia leans forward and takes the post in both of her hands.

"Lower," I coach. She shifts her grasp into a better position. "Good. Don't let go. If you do, I'll spank you. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir," she whispers faintly.

"Good." I grip her hips, admiring that gorgeous ass of hers, still pink from the lick of the riding crop, and displayed quite prominently by the way she's bending over. I'm not complaining. I shift her into position, so that I'm lined up with her entrance.

"Don't let go, Anastasia," I tell her, "I'm going to fuck you hard from behind." And as I say the words, I can feel the monster begin to fade; it's a relief. "Hold the post to support your weight. Understand?"

"Yes," she says.

I swat her ass hard, and watch as it turns red, in the shape of my handprint.

"Yes, Sir," she corrects herself.

"Part your legs," I instruct, but she's not fast enough, so I shift my thigh between hers and push them apart myself. "That's better," I say, admiring the beautiful, delicious view of her—bent over in front of me, vulnerable and so, so exposed. I can see the pink, glistening flesh between her legs. "After this, I'll let you sleep." I graze the rest of her body with my eyes, hungrily. Hell, she's so beautiful. That skin so pure, so flawless, so clean, and pure. I can't get enough of it. I release one of my hands and trail it up and over the soft, supple skin of her back.

"You have such beautiful skin, Anastasia," I whisper, and bend to kiss it, trailing my lips up her spine. As I do so, I reach around for her breasts, warm and full in my hands. I pinch her nipples between my fingers and pull on them gently. I tease her, languidly, settling into the ease this brings me—as if I'm floating through water. The ache is still there, still growling. I need to go deeper. Reluctantly, I pull my hands off her body and tear open a condom packet, removing my jeans at the same time. I stare at her captivating behind the entire time. Mmm…

"You have such a captivating, sexy ass, Anastasia Steele. What I'd like to do to it." I run my hands over her cheeks and then slip my right hand down, dipping two fingers inside of her. Oh fuck yes. She's ready. "So wet. You never disappoint, Miss Steele." I've never been with a woman who is always so prepared, so wet, so quickly. "Hold tight… This is going to be quick, baby."

I watch her hands tighten incrementally around the post as I take her hips in my grasp again and line myself up. I reach up and grip her braid in my hand, winding it around my wrist, securing her in place. I force myself to enter her slowly, at a nearly torturous pace—but what can I say? I'm a firm believer in delayed gratification. As I ease myself inside her, I feel that wet tightness stretch around me, adjusting to my invasion. And it's so, so deep like this. I nearly shudder at the sensation.

Oh fuck, so good… I pull completely out, glancing down quickly. My cock glistens with her wetness, and turns me the fuck on. I can't hold back any longer—I plunge into her. The suddenness of my assault jerks her forward.

"Hold on, Anastasia!" I call to her through clenched teeth. _Please don't let go, please don't let go…_

My eyes are shut, so I don't see if she adjusts herself or not, but I can't stop myself now. I feel her hips push back into me, forcing me deeper inside.

Oh, shit. Vaguely, I can feel my grip on her tightening, but I'm too focused on the sensation building inside me—the pressure, the sparks of my approaching orgasm building, gathering into a small flame. It licks up my insides, building in intensity, in heat…

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. I swear it's never been as good as it is with Anastasia Steele. Her body is so right, so perfect against mine, shaping around mine.

I'm building faster than I thought I would. I thrust deeper into her, aiming for that sweet spot inside her. Oh god, she needs to come again…

"Come on, Ana, give it to me," I groan, so close. As if my words are her undoing, she explodes around me, the muscles inside her clenching and then releasing, spasming around my length, and I bury myself inside her, letting go myself.

"Oh, Ana!" I gasp as my orgasm rips through me, taking hold of every fiber of my being. The orgasm, the complete sensation, becomes me. I am my orgasm. There is nothing else expect this sweet, sweet ecstasy; this sweet, sweet oblivion.

Anastasia's orgasm fizzles out nearly at the same moment mine does. I barely have time to recover, because as she moans softly, her grip on the post loosens.

"Shit," I half gasp, half groan, gripping her around the waist so that she doesn't collapse.

Slowly, I sink to the floor, with her in my embrace. I can't sit—the orgasm has made me weak, and so I lie back, letting her recline against my chest. We lay there in silence for a little while, and I'm able to gather both my breath and my wits.

Oh, fuck—that was good.

Anastasia is prostrate across my chest, and for a moment I entertain the thought that I've done her in by orgasm. What a way to go.

I nuzzle her ear with my nose, inhaling the sweet scent of her.

"Hold up your hands." I tell her as I reach out to get the scissors from my jeans and fumble the safety cover off.

She does, and I pass the blade of the scissors under the plastic binding. "I declare this Ana open," I joke, still high and giddy from the sex.

She giggles at my words, a wonderfully lovely sound, and rubs her wrists. I grin at the sound of it.

"That is such a lovely sound." I shift us both into a sitting position, all of a sudden troubled. "That's my fault." I'm the reason she's so serious all of the time. I've given her so much to think about, to process—it's always flying at her. I wish I could be like Elliot—cracking jokes all the time, making the girls laugh. But I'm not. I'm just fucked-up Christian Grey.

I lift my hands to massage her shoulders, knowing she'll be sore, if she isn't already. Anastasia turns to glance at me, and I see the confusion on her face.

"That you don't giggle more often," I explain.

"I'm not a great giggler," she protests, her voice quiet.

"Oh, but when it happens, Miss Steele, 'tis a wonder and joy to behold," I tell her, every bit of my words honest and true. I love hearing her giggle. It makes me light inside, as if my chest cavity has been filled with helium. When she giggles, there is no weight to anything in the world, and nothing else matters in that moment expect for me and her.

"Very flowery, Mr. Grey," she approves. She nearly slurs the words she's so exhausted; I watch as she fights to keep her eyes open. She blinks once, very slowly—in the second before she opens her eyes again, I wonder if she'll fall asleep right here, on my playroom floor.

"I'd say you're thoroughly fucked and in need of sleep," I say.

"That wasn't flowery at all," she groans.

I can't help but grin, amused by her words, and I pull myself into a standing position. I have to admit, I'm tired, too. I haven't done a scene in so long, and though I've been exercising regularly, my muscles are out of practice. Add in the fact that I haven't gotten very much sleep since 3am yesterday, when I got up to pick up Mia from the airport, and it's easy to say that I could use a nap as well. I pull my jeans back on, aware that Anastasia is watching me through half-hooded, sleepy eyes.

"Don't want to frighten Taylor, or Mrs. Jones for that matter."

She just sits there, and I bend to help her stand, guiding her over to the door, where I hung a gray waffle robe. I pull it off the hook on the back of the door and wrap her in it. I lean down to kiss her swiftly, and I smile at her. She looks absolutely ravaged.

"Bed." For a moment, apprehension dawns in her eyes, and I realize almost immediately what for. "For sleep," I reassure her. I bend and spoon her into my arms. Honestly, I don't know if she'll make it down the hall. I'd better carry her. Plus, I'm feeling just a little bit playful. I carry her to her bedroom, pull back the cream duvet on the bed, and lay her down.

I remove the condom, knot it and toss it in the wastebasket next to the bed, rezipping my jeans.

As I crawl in beside her, I note that she very well could already be asleep. Still, I lean over her to check. She's breathing very softly, evenly. Her eyes are shut. Her cheeks are flushed, and her lashes flutter over her cheekbones like butterfly wings.

"Sleep now, gorgeous girl," I breathe and kiss her hair. I lie down on the pillow next to hers, and pull her back to me. She's really very cozy in this robe. I cuddle up to her back and close my eyes. And before I know it, I'm asleep too.


	21. Chapter 21

**Hi, lovelies! I realize I didn't write a note with the last chapter update, which felt kind of stale and distant. So I decided I needed to type up a note along with this chapter.**

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**I'm really enjoying writing this. As we speak, I'm currently working on the next TWO chapters.**

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**.**

_Sunday, May 29__th_

I sleep for about an hour, and wake feeling fully refreshed.

Carefully, I extricate myself from the way I'm wrapped around Anastasia. She moans softly, stirring as I sit up. I examine her face closely for a moment, afraid I've woken her, but she settles again. As I rise, she rolls, stretching across the side of the bed I've just abandoned.

I exit her bedroom quietly, and go downstairs, into my bedroom. I head into the en suite to shower. Back in the bedroom, after I'm dressed, I pick up my Blackberry from where I've left it on the dresser. Idly, I scroll through my emails and missed calls.

I get caught up in dealing with business and it's just after seven when I check the time. I finish up the email I'm composing to Ros.

I cross into the kitchen and pour Ana a glass of cranberry juice and sparkling water. I head back upstairs to see if she's awake yet, gathering her dress and bra from the playroom in the process. Slight amusement touches me as I realize her panties are tucked away in the inside pocket of my jacket. If she wants them back, she'll have to ask for them.

As I crack the door to her bedroom, I realize that she's still asleep, sprawled across the bed. Her hair is mostly loosened from the braid, strands of hair sticking to her face.

I hang the dress on her wardrobe, leave her bra on the chair, and cross the room to her, leaning over her. I almost don't want to wake her—she's so peaceful. But I want to give her enough time to get ready for dinner at my parents'.

I set the glass on her bedside table and kiss her temple softly, inhaling the delicious scent of her hair.

She groans petulantly, turning her face into her pillow.

I smirk, amused at her response. "Anastasia, wake up," I urge her.

"No."

"We have to leave in half an hour for dinner at my parents'."

I never would have taken Anastasia for not being a morning person, and I'm grinning wider now, in entertainment. I find it hilarious.

Slowly, her eyes flutter open, and that gorgeous blue finds my face.

"Come on, sleepyhead. Get up," I tell her, and I lean down to kiss her on the lips.

Abruptly, I find myself excited for Anastasia to meet my parents. The fluttery feeling in my stomach is unfamiliar.

"I've brought you a drink. I'll be downstairs. Don't go back to sleep," I warn her, "or you'll be in trouble." I kiss her once more, quickly, and head back downstairs, leaving her to get ready.

Back downstairs, I turn on some music—Frank Sinatra—to wait for her. I go to the window to admire the lights of the city. They twinkle, shining brightly, and I get the odd feeling that they're speaking to me, welcoming me.

That excitement I felt briefly upstairs, thrums full force in my chest. I can't wait, and all at once I am anxious. I'm proud of this woman. She's beautiful, smart, kind of sassy, and I can't wait to see my family's reaction when I introduce them to her.

Fifteen minutes later, I hear her enter the room. As I turn to look at her, I'm overwhelmed by her beauty once more. She looks refreshed and clean; her eyes are bright and aware. That dress… I can't get over it. The way it hugs her curves and wraps around her body… My, oh my.

I smile at her, remembering that she's not wearing any underwear. I wait for her to ask for them…

A beat of silence passes between us, but she doesn't ask.

"Hi," she says instead. Her voice is soft, and as she grins hugely at me, I realize the magnitude of my own smile.

"Hi. How are you feeling?"

"Good, thanks. You?" she replies. She is being so cavalier, so casual, and I'm trying really hard not to laugh. Two can play this off-the-cuff game.

"I feel mighty fine, Miss Steele." I'm still waiting for it. There's no way she's going to ignore her absence of underwear for this occasion. She's meeting my parents, for god's sake!

"Frank," she says, noting the song playing on the iPod dock, "I never figured you for a Sinatra fan."

She's really not going to ask for them back, and I can't hide my shocked expression at the realization. It turns me on, her bravado, her stubbornness.

"Eclectic taste, Miss Steele," I tell her. I can't help but move toward her. I've had her twice today already, but I can't deny it: I want her again.

We don't have time, though, and I know it. So it will have to wait. I lift my hand and trail my fingers over her cheek. Her skin is so creamy and soft, but her cheeks hold a pink blush.

"Dance with me." I'm aware that it's not a question, but a command, and I know that—but I'm not used to asking for something. Demanding things is the only way I really know how.

I slip the dock's remote out of my pocket and bump the volume up a few notches. Once that's taken care of, I turn back toward Ana, holding my hand out to her. Obediently, she puts her hand in mine, and I grin at her, pulling her to me, hand flat on her lower back.

Her grin echoes my own, and I ease us into a dance.

Briefly, I'm taken back to all the dancing I did with Elena. She was the one who taught me how to move, and since, it hasn't failed me. There's something about a man who can dance, I suppose. Anastasia moves with me, graceful and with ease.

We sway over to the kitchen, and back to the windows, around the dining table, over to the grand baby piano, and back to the glass wall.

She tilts her head back, laughing freely, and the sound makes my heart pound. My god, she is so, so glorious.

"There's no nicer witch than you," I murmur, repeating Frank's lyrics, and I tilt my face to hers, kissing her slowly, softly, tenderly. "Well, that's brought some color to your cheeks, Miss Steele," I observe, tracing the flush covering her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. "Thank you for the dance. Shall we go and meet my parents?"

"You're welcome, and yes, I can't wait to meet them," she replies, a little out of breath.

"Do you have everything you need?"

"Oh, yes."

"Are you sure?"

She nods wordlessly. She's trying to stay casual, but her blush darkens just slightly.

She's really not going to ask for her panties back? Really?! This woman is absolutely bewitching, beguiling, and she stands her own. I'm not used to that.

"Okay, if that's the way you want to play it, Miss Steele," I tell her, grinning wildly.

I take her hand; collect my jacket from one of the barstools. I lead her through the foyer and to the elevator.

We step inside, and I still can't believe it. We're going to meet my parents, and Anastasia isn't wearing any panties. I am amused and baffled and impressed, all at once.

As the elevator descends, I feel that familiar arousal building in my belly, and when I glance down at Ana, I see it in her eyes, too.

The slow build bursts to life inside me, and that's it, I'm going to do it, I'm going to push her up against the wall of this elevator, lift the hem of that dress around her waist and fuck her—but the ding interrupts us, and the doors pull open on the ground floor, where Taylor is waiting with the Audi.

I shake the arousing thoughts from my head and then gesture for Ana to exit the elevator before I do.

At the curb, Taylor pulls up. I pull open the back door for Anastasia, and she climbs inside. I duck in after her, buckle in, and we're off.

Taylor takes us up Interstate 5, and as we travel north, the feelings and sensations that have been merely sparking in waves before, are beginning to churn in my stomach. The anxiety is growing steadily, and I can't deny the fact that I'm nervous now, really nervous.

How will this all pan out? I'm not sure of what Ana means to me anymore—our arrangement is so different from anything I've ever been familiar with—and all I know is that I approve of her, wholeheartedly. Will my parents and siblings feel the same way? I've never brought a girl to meet my family before. There is a first time for everything, but I'm not sure I'm ready for this.

"Where did you learn to dance?" Anastasia asks me, and her soft, hesitant voice shatters my dark thoughts.

I turn my gaze to her, surfacing slowly from the depth of my doubtful reverie. She's not going to like the answer. "Do you really want to know?"

She hesitates for just a second, but then says, quietly, "Yes." It sounds more like a question.

"Mrs. Robinson was fond of dancing," I tell her, using Anastasia's name for her.

The expression in her eyes darkens and I know she's not fond of the answer. Finally she says, "She must have been a good teacher."

"She was," I assure her. I examine her face closely, watching for a reaction. She seems lost in thought, her expression unreadable, aside from the small smile that flicks the corners of her lips up, briefly.

I wonder what her deal is with Elena. Elena was one of the best things that ever happened to me. When I was fifteen, my parents 'loaned me out' to do a job for her one summer. I was almost immediately brought into her world of Dom/sub relationships. She saved me from a lot of things, and I shudder now to think of where I could be if she hadn't stepped into my life like that, then. I know for a fact it wouldn't have been good—or even, anything at all. Would I be dead by now if Elena hadn't rescued me from the life I was surely headed for?

The only way I knew how to express my emotions was through violence at school. I was getting into so many brawls, on the verge of expulsion from yet another school. My parents were at the end of their rope. They had no idea what to do for me, and though my mother pleaded with me through her tears many a time, I didn't know how to express to her what I needed. I didn't know how to say what I needed to say. The words were buried somewhere deep inside of me, where I couldn't reach.

Elena helped me deal with them, in a way that was familiar and acceptable to me.

I gaze down at Anastasia now, wondering what she's making of all of this. Despite my time spent in deep thought, Anastasia's spent her time there longer. I wonder what she's thinking about, but I know it can't be good, and I also know that she has to be making more of it than it really deserves.

"Don't," I mutter to her. My words seem to break her from thought and she glances at me, frowning.

"Don't what?" she inquires, obviously confused.

"Overthink things, Anastasia." I reach out to take her hand, bringing it to my lips so I can kiss her knuckles. Elena is in the past, and what matters currently is the here and now. "I had a wonderful afternoon. Thank you."

She blinks and smiles bashfully at me. "Why did you use a cable tie?" she asks. Her question is very random, so out of the blue, but I also feel that I'm becoming accustomed to them.

I grin at her, and explain: "It's quick, it's easy, and it's something different for you to feel and experience. I know they're quite brutal, and I do like that in a restraining device. Very effective at keeping you in your place." _Which you seem to have trouble doing, Miss Steele._

Blood stains Ana's cheeks, and she glances over at Taylor, obviously worried about him overhearing our conversation. Her gaze turns back on me.

"All part of my world, Anastasia," I say, squeezing her hand quickly. As I let it go, I turn to stare out at the passing world. Why are those words beginning to feel… almost uncomfortable to say?

When I turn back to look at Ana, she's staring out her own window, lost in her thoughts again. "Penny for your thoughts?"

She exhales softly, the edges of her lips turning down.

"That bad, huh?"

"I wish I knew what you were thinking," she tells me.

I smirk. "Ditto, baby."

~~…~~

"Are you ready for this?" I ask Anastasia as Taylor pulls up in front of my parents' house. I am abruptly overwhelmed by anxiety.

She nods, and I squeeze her hand for reassurance—for myself, or for her, I don't know.

"First for me, too," I whisper in reminder. My grin overtakes my face, recalling the fact that she's not wearing any panties right now. "Bet you wish you were wearing your underwear right now." That beautiful blush colors her cheeks, and I have the feeling she'd forgotten about that.

Taylor pulls open the back door on Anastasia's side of the car. She shoots me a fierce glare—which I can't help but grin at—and slides out, onto the front walkway.

As I exit the Audi as well, I find that my mother is standing on the doorstep. Obviously she saw us pull up. She seems ecstatic, and I hope it's not just because I've brought a girl to dinner—though, I can understand the lure. My father stands at her elbow.

Anastasia and I climb the steps to reach them. "Anastasia, you've met my mother, Grace. This is my dad, Carrick," I introduce, upon our arrival at the door.

"Mr. Grey, what a pleasure to meet you," Anastasia tells my father, smiling broadly, and taking his outstretched hand in her small, soft one. They shake.

"The pleasure is all mine, Anastasia," he assures her.

"Please, call me Ana," she insists. I wonder why she pushes people to call her Ana, so much. She has a very beautiful, sophisticated full name, and I love to use it. It suits her.

"Ana, how lovely to see you again," my mother says to her now, and pulls her into an embrace, which I am a tad surprised by. My mother is not one to hug her son's… What? Anastasia is hardly my girlfriend. Anyway, she was never one to hug any of Elliot's girlfriends when we happened to bring one to meet our parents. Why is she hugging Anastasia? As my mother pulls Ana to her, she gazes at me over her shoulder, and she looks absolutely joyful. The site of her face warms me. "Come in, my dear."

I follow my parents and Anastasia inside.

"Is she here?" I hear Mia screech from somewhere inside—probably upstairs—as we step into the front foyer.

I don't miss the fearful glance Anastasia shoots me. She has every right to be anxious. My sister can be a maniac sometimes.

"That would be Mia, my little sister," I explain to her. As I say the words, my sister comes crashing down the corridor.

"Anastasia! I've heard so much about you!" she crows, and smashes Ana to her in a voracious hug. It looks a tad rough, and that's saying something, coming from me.

Unexpectedly, I watch Ana grin at her. She's obviously amused by my little sister. What can I say, so am I. I love her unbridled enthusiasm for life, her jump-right-in attitude.

"He's never brought a girl home before," Mia's saying now.

Oh, hell. Here we go. I roll my eyes at my sister, and as my pupils complete their circuit, I find Anastasia staring at me. As our eyes lock, she raises a soft, feathery eyebrow at me. I narrow my own at her. Make of it what she likes.

"Mia, calm down," my mother chides Mia, though the words hold hardly any weight. My mother has never been the one to discipline. That's dad's job. "Hello, darling," she greets me and kisses both my cheeks without touching me. I grin at her warmly; always respectful of her carefully keeping her boundaries, and then I turn to my father and shake his hand.

Mia leads us all into the living room, and I note that she's holding Anastasia's hand now, and has no intention of letting it go anytime soon. Upon entering, I find Elliot and Miss. Kavanagh cozied up on one of the couches close to the unlit fireplace. They are each holding a flute of champagne. Kate rises up and goes to hug Anastasia.

"Hi, Ana! Christian," she nods at me, her address to me a lot curter than Ana got.

"Kate," I return, my tone equally as glacial. If somebody's curt with me, I'll be curt with them.

I think I see Anastasia frown, but I can't be too sure, because before I can really examine her face from where I've just turned my gaze away from Kate, Elliot is sweeping Ana off her feet—literally. He squeezes her, and just as he releases her, I curl my arm around her waist.

I'm feeling a tad possessive, all of a sudden. I spread my fingers out over her hip, feeling the softness of her curve beneath my palm, and I shift her closer to me. It's not close enough, but we're hardly alone. In fact, we're the center of attention. All eyes are on us, and it's easy to figure out why.

"Drinks?" my father suddenly suggests. "Prosecco?"

"Please," Anastasia and I blurt in exact rhythm.

Mia claps her hands giddily. I wouldn't take it above her if she jumped up and down for joy. "You're even saying the same things!" I shoot her a glare no one else, thank god, percepts. "I'll get them," she says and quickly exits the room.

"Dinner's almost ready," my mother informs us all as she follows my sister out of the room.

I glance down at Anastasia and find her cheeks red and her lips turned down into a frown. She looks extremely troubled by something, and it kills me that I don't know what that's about.

"Sit," I tell her, and point to the empty couch, the one Kate and Elliot aren't occupying. She does, and I watch her cross her legs with extreme measure. I lower myself onto the cushion beside her.

"We were just talking about vacations, Ana," my father says, bringing us up to speed, surely, "Elliot has decided to follow Kate and her family to Barbados for a week."

Can't say I'm not surprised at this news. Elliot has hardly ever led the single life; in fact, he's had more girlfriends than I can count. But he's never gone to Barbados with any of them. As Kate and Ana exchange some sort of silent, girlish exchange, I watch the way he's got his arm around her and the easy, lazy grin on his face.

I wish I could be that at ease around Anastasia. But then, what Elliot surely has with Kate, is not what I'm looking for with Anastasia. My tastes are very singular. As I think the thought, it's almost as if I'm reminding myself of it. Strange.

"Are you taking a break now that you've finished your degree?" my father asks now, and I'm not sure whom he's speaking too—Anastasia or Miss. Kavanagh.

"I'm thinking about going to Georgia for a few days," Anastasia answers him.

_What the hell? She's leaving?!_ She's mentioned not one fucking thing about going to fucking Georgia to me. And here she is, telling my fucking father that she's planning on going? Not without asking me first, no fucking way.

I'm aware I'm gaping at her now, but I can't pull myself together. "Georgia?" I ask her, forcing myself not to snap, but to murmur. I can't lose my shit here, not in front of my family. But I'm desperate to show Anastasia who is in charge of this relationship. She can't just fucking pull things like this on me! The lust which flared inside me earlier this evening, in the living room, and then in the elevator, is a flame now—a burning, searing need, flaying my insides. I need to extinguish the fire, and I know exactly how I'd do it.

"My mother lives there, and I haven't seen her for a while," Anastasia explains now, her voice as low as mine—discreet.

"When were you thinking of going?" This is not the way I want to be having this conversation, but I can't very well go Dom on her in front of these people, now.

"Tomorrow, late evening."

_That fucking soon?!_ Oh, now I'm mad. Palm-twitchingly mad. Before I can get another word out, Mia reenters the room, handing out champagne flutes filled with pale pink Prosecco.

"Your good health!" my father toasts.

I raise my glass numbly, more focused on battling the rage insides that twists my guts into a knot. Oh my fuck, I want to spank her. What a stupid, stupid thing of her to do. How could she not have asked permission? How could she think this wouldn't affect me?

"For how long?" I ask her, leaning a little closer to her.

She blinks once at me, and I think she's caught on to how angry I am.

"I don't know yet," she answers, "It will depend how my interviews go tomorrow."

Doesn't know? She doesn't fucking know? She can't give me a timeline, as to how long she'll be gone? Does she have any reference for my sanity at all? I feel my jaw clench audibly, at least to my ears.

"Ana deserves a break," I hear Miss Kavanagh say now, almost snapping at me.

I ignore her.

"You have interviews?" my father asks her.

"Yes, for internships at two publishers tomorrow." I barely hear her. Her words almost sound like they're coming from underwater. My head is buzzing with the heat of anger boiling my blood.

"I wish you the best of luck."

"Dinner is ready." My mother's voice breaks through the surface of the water, and everyone rises, heading into the dining room. As Anastasia goes to follow everyone else, I grip her elbow, yanking her to a halt.

"When were you going to tell me you were leaving?" I demand, attempting in vain, to quell my rage. It wouldn't be appropriate to yell at her here, in the company of so many people we know.

"I'm not leaving," she tells me, turning those big blue eyes on me. "I'm going to see my mother, and I was only thinking about it."

"What about our arrangement?" Another racy, blurring sensation trickles through my veins. I can't think clearly through it. I can only comprehend that she's leaving, and I don't know how _we_ will continue to work out if she does.

"We don't have an arrangement yet."

That racy feeling gives way to an incredible surge of anger, and I'd like to hit her, to bend her over and cane that ass of hers, so she won't be able to sit for a week. Try to fly to Georgia on a red, caned behind, _Miss Steele_. Blinking, I remember where we are, and I release her hand I hadn't realize I'd taken hold of. I grip her underneath her elbow again and drag her out of the room. I need to be in the presence of other people, of my family, so that I don't give in to the temptations rattling in my bones.

"This conversation is not over," I assure her, on the precipice of the dining room.

We enter, and I force myself to soften my grip on her elbow. This room hasn't changed in as long as I can remember, though a lot of the rest of the house has. My mom has a knack for interior design, despite the fact that she's a doctor.

I note the familiar huge crystal chandelier hanging over the dark wood table; and the mirror on the wall. The table is covered in white linen, set for the seven of us. There are pink flowers in the middle.

We take our seats at the table, and my father opens a bottle of Shiraz. I watch, wound tightly, as he offers some first to Miss Kavanagh.

Mia sits down beside me, and I'm surprised when I feel her hand on mine. She takes it, squeezing it firmly, and immediately I defrost monumentally. I can't help but smile at her. Mia has a way of soothing me, in a way nothing else really has, not to this margin.

As kids, even, I remember her causing that anger—which seemed to live inside me like a monster at all times—disappear at the squeeze of a hand or a pat of the shoulder, or especially when she wound her arms around my waist and hugged me.

"Where did you meet, Ana?" she asks now.

"She interviewed me for the WSU student newspaper," I jump in; worried that she might not offer a nonchalant sufficient answer.

"Which Kate edits," Anastasia adds.

My sister turns her gaze on Miss Kavanagh and grins widely at her. They jump into a conversation all about student newspapers. I don't try to keep up. That was one thing I was never very interested in, in school. In fact, there were many things I wasn't very interested in.

My father offers Ana wine now, and rises to fill the rest of our glasses. I catch Ana sneak a glance up at me, and the expression in her eyes is full of fear.

I cock my head at her. What is she so scared of? Is it me? "What?"

"Please don't be mad at me," she breathes.

"I'm not mad at you," I lie.

She stares at me, those cerulean eyes so clear, so transparent, so cutting, like lasers. She sees right through me, I just know it, and I sigh, relenting.

"Yes, I am mad at you," I admit, and I close my eyes briefly, trying to reign in the rage that peaks like a tsunami.

"Palm-twitchingly mad?" she inquires, her voice quaking underneath the weight of her anxiety.

"What are you two whispering about?" Miss Kavanagh interrupts us, and I turn searing eyes on her. This is none of her fucking business, and I want to tell her so, but my mother would hide me. Ha… Okay, maybe she wouldn't hide me—but the idea is entertained either way.

I'm satisfied when I watch Kate pale slightly as I glare at her.

"Just about my trip to Georgia," Anastasia lies, her voice sickly sweet, and a couple octaves too high. I can tell she's lying, but can Kate?

She smiles at Anastasia now. "How was Jose when you went to the bar with him on Friday?"

I bristle immediately at that _fucking _photographer's name, and my blood is singing with rage again. Anastasia went to the fucking _bar _with him on Friday? _What the fucking fuck?_

_Oh, all these new revelations. What else is there that I should know about you, Miss Steele?_

"He was fine," Anastasia murmurs, barely audible.

I lean over in my seat, inhaling deeply through my nose. I am so mad that my lungs ache for air. "Palm twitchingly mad. Especially now."

.


	22. Chapter 22

_Sunday, May 29__th_

We eat. I can always count on my mother to provide a delicious meal. I note that Ana devours hers, and the site pleases me. Slowly, she may be able to earn her place back in my good books.

We're having dessert, and Elliot is telling us about his latest business venture. He and Kate exchange some sort of gooey, lustful look, but I'm watching Anastasia, and the way she watches them. She seems taken by their exchange.

Suddenly, she glances up at me, and her eyes darken, that blue shifting colors, and I could almost guess what she's thinking about. I'm a little more certain about it when she bites down on her lip.

I reach up and snatch her chin gently, pulling her lip from her teeth's imprisonment. "Don't bite your lip," I murmur, aware I sound a little husky, "I want to do that."

My mother and Mia get up to begin clearing the dishes, and I turn to where my father, Elliot and Miss Kavanagh are still going on about the solar panel thing. A part of me is interested in it, but a bigger part of me is more interested in the fact that dinner is now finished, and everyone will be retiring to the living room, to drink brandy and talk some more.

That leaves the chance open for me to be able to finally fuck Anastasia Steele again. I'm no longer seething. The conversation over the meal has lightened my mood, and though I'd no longer like to punish her into next Wednesday, I'm always for fucking her—again, and again, and again…

I steal my hand over onto her knee, where I've already been teasing her through the course of the meal. Slowly, I brush my fingers up her thigh, reveling in the soft, silken skin there. The rest of her body is like porcelain and silk, but her thighs are marginally softer.

I hear Ana's breath catch, and I'd love to sneak a glance at her face to check if she's blushing—which I bet she is—but I'm pretending to be involved in the conversation at hand.

All at once, she clamps her thighs together to halt my progress, just as I'm beginning to feel the heat radiating from between her legs. I can't hide my smirk, amused by her gesture. Also, I'm turned on, surprisingly. No one has ever said 'no' to me before, and it's kind of hot. In fact, it's really fucking hot. I need to fuck her _now._

"Shall I give you a tour of the grounds?" I ask her, raising my voice so that everyone can hear. For some reason, I feel that I need to generate an alibi.

Ana doesn't answer me right away, and for a second I think she's going to say no. Before she can answer, I stand, offering her my hand. She puts her hand in mine, and I help her to her feet.

"Excuse me," she says to my father, who smiles softly at her, and I lead her out of the dining room, down the hallway, and into the kitchen. Mia and my mother are loading the dishwasher, and the site brings me back to the old days. This wasn't how it always was, of course. Elliot and I had our fair share of evenings spent in the kitchen, but seeing my sister and mother cleaning up after dinner raises fond feelings.

I will be forever grateful to Grace and Carrick Grey, who took me in, and bestowed upon me, a life I have never deserved, but am nonetheless very blessed to have.

"I'm going to show Anastasia the backyard," I tell my mother as we pass. She waves with a smile, and Mia ducks back into the dining room.

I usher Anastasia through the backdoor first, onto the flagstone patio, lit my recycled, solar panel lights, built into the rock. I guide her past the sitting area and up the steps, onto the great back lawn.

I have so many memories of running across this lawn with Mia and Elliot, passing a football, or just horsing around. For a minute, in the darkness, I can almost see the apparition of it, of us siblings as kids, running through sprinklers in the summer heat, or building snowmen in the winter chill.

I go to cross the lawn, but I feel resistance at my hand, and turn to find Anastasia staring in wonder across the lawn, where the two family boats are moored beside the boathouse. I yank at her hand, suddenly overwhelmed by the grace she has about her. She looks ravishing in that dress, and the lust sideswipes me. I need to get her to the boathouse.

"Stop, please," she begs, stumbling behind me.

I do, turning to gaze at her.

"My heels," she says, "I need to take my shoes off."

There's no time. "Don't bother," I tell her, and I bend, tilting her, at the waist, over my shoulder. I pick her up, and she screams loudly. To quiet her, I swat her hard on the backside.

"Keep your voice down," I snap at her. Some of the anger is seeping back into my consciousness. The fact that she was planning on leaving me for Georgia, tomorrow evening, is maddening. But to add on the fact that she was out with the fucking photographer who forced himself on her just weeks ago is unforgivable.

"Where are we going?" she whispers now as I carry her across the lawn.

"Boathouse."

"Why?" she asks.

"I need to be alone with you."

"What for?"

_What for?_ "Because I'm going to spank you and then fuck you."

"Why?" If I'm not mistaken, I hear her whimper.

"You know why," I spit at her.

"I thought you were an in-the-moment guy?"

"Anastasia, I'm in the moment, trust me." She doesn't answer. My words seem to have done the trick of shutting her up. I carry her across the rest of the lawn easily, silently. We reach the boathouse in no time—I'm motivated—and I push through the doors, flicking on the light switches. I barely register the cruiser floating in the dock before I turn and head up the stairs to the loft.

In the doorway, I pause to flick on another light, and I set Anastasia on her feet.

Breathing hard, from a menagerie of different things—carrying her across the lawn, the harshness of my anger, the depth of my lust, born from that anger—I drink her in.

She appears frazzled, a few strands of hair in her face, the front of her dress slightly wrinkled in the front from where she was tossed over my shoulder. Her blue eyes are bright, but wary as she stares back at me.

Oh, I want to spank her.

"Please don't hit me," she breathes, barely audible.

Her words break me from the trance I hadn't realized I'd been in. The fear I hadn't seen on her face before suddenly becomes apparent. _No._ She's said 'no'.

"I don't want you to spank me, not here, not now. Please don't," she begs me.

I barely feel my lips part in surprise, stunned by this halt, this change in gears. No one has ever asked me not to spank them before, and I'm stunned by her plead. She's asked me not to hit her, and I don't know how to process it.

I'm still trying when she reaches a hand up and strokes the side of my face. I don't stop her. Oh, her hand is so soft, so gentle, so smooth, and something warm and fuzzy wells up in my chest as her fingers trail over my sideburn, down to my chin. I can't stifle my soft moan of pleasure as I lean my face into her caress.

_That feels good._

I feel her other hand on the opposite side of my face now, skipping over it quickly, her fingers catching in my hair. That feeling inside me swells, and it's so, so strange and absolutely unfamiliar. I've never felt this way around a woman before. Not only am I allowing her to touch me, but I'm _enjoying_ it. I didn't know it could feel this pleasurable.

I open my eyes and find her watching me, the depth of the blue in her irises so deep, so longing, so open and trusting. Anastasia takes a step forward so that her breasts are pressed to my chest, and pulls my face to hers. She forces her tongue past my lips, into my mouth, completely taking the lead, and I'm allowing her to do it.

I don't know what this woman is doing to me, but she's completely bewitching me. Anastasia Steele has an effect on me like no other. She's completely flipped my life upside down, and I have no idea what to make of it.

I groan and wrap my arms around her, pulling her impossibly closer. On their own accord, my hands wind themselves into her long, dark hair, and I kiss her back, hard, selfishly, single-mindedly. Anastasia is _mine_. Our tongues battle for dominance. Oh god, she's delicious.

I'm overwhelmed by the sensations—some familiar, some foreign—ripping their way through my veins, filling me, overtaking me. I pull back, needing space, but our faces are only inches apart. As I inhale, I can taste her exhale.

"What are you doing to me?"

"Kissing you," she replies, dubious.

"You said no."

"What?" She's still clueless.

"At the dinner table, with your legs," I explain.

"But we were at your parents' dining table," she says, staring up at me, her eyes wide, cloudy with lust and confusion.

"No one's ever said no to me before. And it's so—hot." I'm amazed at this woman. Awakening things in me I haven't experienced before, bringing things into this arrangement I haven't tried or done. I am in wonder and awe of her, and I want her so badly. I skate my hand down her back, and cup that delectable ass of hers, pulling her hard against me, so that she can feel my erection.

"You're mad and turned on because I said no?" she whispers, and I can see her response to my action on her face.

"I'm mad because you never mentioned Georgia to me. I'm mad because you went drinking with that guy who tried to seduce you when you were drunk and who left you when you were ill with an almost complete stranger. What kind of friend does that? And I'm mad and aroused because you closed your legs on me," I clarify, and I can't help myself anymore. My fingers grip the hem of her dress, and leisurely, I begin to edge it up.

"I want you," I tell her, "I want you now. And if you're not going to let me spank you—which you deserve—I'm going to fuck you on the couch this minute, quickly, for my pleasure, not yours."

The dress is halfway exposing her ass, and consequently, her sex, and I can't resist myself. I move to cup her—she's warm and damp against my palm—and I slide a finger inside her unhurriedly, and then another. I keep my other arm wrapped around her waist, securing her so that she can't move.

"This is mine," I hiss, "All mine. Do you understand?" I ask her as I fuck her slowly with my finger, eyes on her face. She's lost in the sensation, in the way I'm overtaking her.

"Yes, yours," she whispers wantonly.

Her words snap my control. I need her now. I pull my fingers out of her, unzip my fly, and push her down onto the couch, trapping her underneath me, so that she can't touch me.

"Hands on your head," I command. I kneel up, pushing her thighs apart. I slip my hand into the inside pocket of my jacket, pulling out a condom. I shrug my jacket off my shoulders, quickly overheating at the sight of her underneath me, exposed and vulnerable and _mine, all mine_.

I rip the condom open, and roll it down over my hardness. She puts her hands on top of her head, gazing up at me, those wide blue eyes piercing me to my very core.

Her hips arch up, eager as always, before I've even positioned myself.

"We don't have long," I inform her, "This will be quick, and it's for me, not you. Do you understand? Don't come, or I will spank you."

I don't wait for her answer—it's a rhetorical question anyway. I line myself up with her entrance, and I enter her swiftly, hard, clenching my jaw at the way I sink easily into that warm, wet flesh of hers.

Anastasia groans loudly in response to my sudden invasion.

Leaning forward, I put my hands on top of hers, where they rest on her head, pinning her arms down with my elbows, my legs immobilizing hers. I am so close to her, every part of my body touching hers, and it's an overwhelming, heady feeling. Her scent fills my senses, the silkiness of her thighs cradling me.

She is all mine, and the thought makes me crazy. I pound into her furiously, needful, desperate for release. Her hips smack right back into mine, in perfect rhythm with my insane beat, and it brings me closer and closer to ecstasy. Steadily I climb, higher and higher, the sensations flooding me, blocking everything else out.

I climax suddenly, almost not expecting it, stilling inside her as I spill into her. _Oh_. I am suddenly so relaxed, and entirely sated, here, cradled by her in every way possible. I loosen my muscles, settling my entire weight over her for just a moment, regaining my composure, my wits.

Once I'm ready, I pull out, propping myself up on my hands, gazing down at her.

She didn't come, and I am glad for it. I almost expected her to—her body is so responsive, almost wanting it. That way I could spank her. But she's held up her side of the bargain.

"Don't touch yourself," I demand of her, "I want you frustrated. That's what you do to me by not talking to me, by denying me what's mine." The anger rages inside me again, the flame insatiable.

She nods wordlessly, breathless.

I clamber from the couch and remove the condom, tying the end off. I slip it into my pocket, zipping my fly back up at the same time. I run my hand through my hair and reach down for my jacket.

Suddenly, I don't feel so well. There's a dark, heavy feeling blooming in my chest, like a substantial weight. I can't tell if it's shame, guilt, sadness or anger. I've denied many woman an orgasm, but never Anastasia. This being the first time, I didn't know I'd be reacting like this. I feel… _bad_ that she didn't find release the same way I did, but I can't go back on it now.

I turn to look at her, where she's still reclined on the couch.

"We'd better get back to the house."

She pushes herself into a sitting position, appearing a little out of it. She'd better gather her wits by the time we return to the company of my parents.

"Here," I say, pulling her panties from the inside pocket of my jacket, which I stashed there just in case she asked for them, "You may put these on."

She takes them, her expression unreadable, neutral.

"Christian!" I hear Mia call from the first floor, and it makes me jump. _Fuck_.

I turn to Anastasia, my brows lifted in surprise, but I'm also impressed with myself. "Just in time. Christ, she can be really irritating."

She frowns at me and pulls her panties back on. Once they're in place and her dress is pulled back down, she attempts to smooth her hair. It's a little mussed, but I don't think anyone will suspect anything.

"Up here, Mia," I shout down to my sister, once Anastasia is presentable. "Well, Miss Steele, I feel better for that—but I still want to spank you," I add as an aside.

"I don't believe I deserve it, Mr. Grey, especially after tolerating your unprovoked attack," she retorts.

_My fucking unprovoked attack?! _"Unprovoked? You kissed me."

Her lips pull together in a purse. "It was attack as the best form of defense."

"Defense against what?" I ask.

"You and your twitchy palm."

_My twitchy palm?_ I cock my head, grinning at her, amused.

Mia is coming up the stairs now.

"But it was tolerable?" I ask her quietly, desperate for reassurance for some reason. I don't want her completely sufferable.

"Barely," she whispers, and I watch the color flood her cheeks as she smirks.

"Oh, there you are," Mia says now, and she grins at the both of us, completely unaware of what's just happened here.

"I was showing Anastasia around," I tell Mia, holding my hand out to Anastasia, for her to take. She does, slipping her hand into my grasp, and I squeeze it briefly, gently.

"Kate and Elliot are about to leave," Mia says, "Can you believe those two? They can't keep their hands off each other." She sneers in disgust and glances between us. "What have you been doing in here?"

Anastasia turns puce, but I brush her question off easily. "Showing Anastasia my rowing trophies. Let's go say good-bye to Kate and Elliot."

As she turns to head back down the stairs, I guide Anastasia in front of me. I smack her hard on the behind and she gasps.

"I will do it again, Anastasia, and soon," I mutter to her, and then pull her to me, squeezing her tight. I kiss her hair, inhaling her gorgeous scent, and we follow Mia down the stairs.

.

Subsequent to Kate and Elliot bidding my family goodbye, I decide that Anastasia and I should be heading out as well. She has interviews tomorrow and needs her rest. Besides, I'm ready to have her all to myself again.

After our farewells have been made, we head out to where Taylor waits with the Audi. He opens the back door, and I allow Anastasia to slip across the back seat. I slide in after her, and Taylor shuts the door behind us.

"Well, it seems like my family likes you, too," I say as Taylor rounds the vehicle toward the driver's side door.

Anastasia doesn't say anything for a long moment, her lips turning down into a frown—not even as Taylor starts the car and pulls away from the curb. Finally, she turns to look at me, her expression disturbed, yet forlorn.

"What?" Have I fucked up again?

She seems to debate with herself for a moment, but ultimately must decide to voice her true feelings. Good girl. "I think that you felt trapped into bringing me to meet your parents. If Elliot hadn't asked Kate, you'd never have asked me." Her voice is quiet and meek in the dark of the car.

_What the fuck?_ I am absolutely appalled at the direction of her thoughts. Why the hell would she think that?

"Anastasia, I'm delighted that you've met my parents," I tell her, genuine, "Why are you so filled with self-doubt? It never ceases to amaze me. You're such a strong, self-contained young woman, but you have such negative thoughts about yourself. If I hadn't wanted you to meet them, you wouldn't be here. Is that how you were feeling the whole time you were there?" It could have explained her closing her legs on me at dinner. She did seem a tad closed off, in that moment.

I watch her face for a reaction, and she seems pleased with my answer, her frown disappearing, her eyes losing that dark, forlorn look. I reach for her hand, shaking my head at the ridiculousness of her thoughts.

Apprehensively, Anastasia glances toward the front seat, where Taylor stares out the windshield, ignoring our conversation.

"Don't worry about Taylor. Talk to me," I beg her.

Her slim shoulders lift and fall in a shrug. "Yes. I thought that. And another thing, I only mentioned Georgia because Kate was talking about Barbados. I haven't made up my mind."

I think back to her mentioning Georgia at dinner. Despite the rage I felt, I remember noting that she seemed rather genuine, talking about seeing her mom. "Do you want to go and see your mother?"

"Yes," she replies.

Abruptly, I feel very at war with two sides of thought in my mind. One side wants her to be happy, wants her to go and see her mother. The other side is desperate and panicked at the thought of her leaving me.

"Can I come with you?" I ask her, trying to ignore the way the question makes me feel like a child.

Shock sparks in her eyes at my question. I don't think she was expecting it. "Erm… I don't think that's a good idea," she says.

"Why not?" I push.

"I was hoping for a break from all this… intensity to try to think things through," she admits.

I stare at her for a moment, pleased by her honesty, but also amused by her words. She thinks I'm too intense?

"I'm too intense?" I can't help but ask her.

Laughter explodes from her, beautiful laughter. "That's putting it mildly!"

My lips pull up into a smile, though I try to fight it. "Are you laughing at me, Miss Steele?"

"I wouldn't dare, Mr. Grey," she tells me, all pretend earnestness and batting eyelashes, teasing me.

"I think you dare, and I think you do laugh at me, frequently," I tell her. There's a light, giddy feeling blossoming in my chest at our flirty exchange.

"You are quite funny," she says.

"Funny?"

"Oh yes."

"Funny peculiar or funny ha-ha?" I ask.

"Oh, a lot of one and some of the other," she replies.

"Which way more?" I demand, goading her.

"I'll leave you to figure that out," she tells me.

"I'm not sure if I can figure anything out around you, Anastasia." Though my words are sarcastic, suddenly, I'm very serious. Abruptly, my mood sobers, and I lower my voice, empathic, "What do you need to think about in Georgia?"

"Us," she breathes.

I'm confused. She agreed to this, she told me she'd try. Did today's scene change her mind? She seemed to enjoy it too much to need to think things through, though.

"You said you'd try."

"I know," she says, and she sounds almost morose.

Panic fills my belly. "Are you having second thoughts?"

"Possibly."

No. No, no, no. I need her to need this. She can't leave me.

"Why?" I ask, attempting to keep the panic out of my voice, and I think I succeed.

She takes a moment to answer, gazing out the window for a long second.

The longer she's quiet, the quicker my panic builds. "Why, Anastasia?" I push, desperate to know her answer. I can't read anything on her face, though it's hard to even make it out. It's dark as we pass back over the bridge, headed home.

She shrugs, silently. Anastasia gazes out the window for another moment, and then briefly squeezes her eyes shut. There is agony in her expression, as if she is at war with herself, and the expression is familiar.

Ever since I met her, I've been at war with myself. The arrangement we're in is the only way I know, and though I've promised her I'd try for more, it's foreign and unfamiliar and definitely uncomfortable. Is that what this is all about? The 'more' thing? Is that what this will boil down to? Incompatibility, as with many of my previous submissives. The only difference this time is that I don't want her to go. The others I felt indifferent about.

But Anastasia is different.

The thought of her leaving, of having second thoughts, of backing out, sends me into a tailspin. This woman is changing me in so many ways I hadn't realized until tonight. Though I can't put a finger on many of those changes, I know they're happening, and I know they're for the better. I reach for her hand, needing to be in physical contact with her, and I squeeze it gently.

"Talk to me, Anastasia," I beg, "I don't want to lose you. This last week…" The rest of my words choke me. Why the fuck is this so hard, why are these things so hard to confess out loud? The truth is, this last week has been the best week of my life. I've never enjoyed spending time with anyone as much as I love to spend it with Anastasia. I want to spend every day, every moment with her, if it were at all possible.

"I still want more." She speaks—well, whispers.

"I know. I'll try," I promise her, my voice low, almost strained.

Her teeth close down on her bottom lip, and I release her hand so I can tug her lip from her teeth's grasp.

"For you, Anastasia, I will try."

Suddenly, she's unbuckling her seatbelt and climbing into my lap, looping her arms around my neck. She pulls my face to hers, kissing me with everything in her. Initially, I am surprised by her fervor, but in an instant, I'm responding to her kiss, returning it, securing her body against me. I want her, oh I want her.

"Stay with me tonight," I whisper pleadingly, "If you go away, I won't see you all week. Please."

"Yes. And I'll try, too. I'll sign your contract."

Joy and hesitancy battle for dominance inside of me. I am thrilled by her agreement to signing the contract, but I don't want her to agree to it just because she's caught up in the moment, in me.

"Sign after Georgia," I tell her, "Think about it. Think about it hard, baby."

"I will."

We fall into companionable silence for a while, and for a moment I revel in the physical closeness we share. Finally, I say, "You really should wear your seatbelt." I can't bring myself to push her away, however.

She rests her head on my shoulder, nuzzling her nose into my neck, and I tense momentarily, but this is okay, I realize. As long as she's not touching my chest, or back, it's okay. It seems my panic at being touched is restricted to a very finite perimeter.

We stay like this for the rest of the ride, in silence, tangled together. I fear for Anastasia's safety, but I trust Taylor's driving, and I'm too comforted by her closeness to push her back into her seat. The need to have Anastasia against me is almost primal. It crowds out the panic, the doom, and the gloom. It sates me completely.


	23. Chapter 23

_Sunday, May 29__th_

"We're home," I tell her. I feel her lashes flutter against my jaw as she blinks.

Taylor lets us out of the car, and as I step onto the sidewalk after Anastasia, I feel the nip in the air. In conjunction with that realization, I see that Anastasia isn't wearing a jacket.

"Why don't you have a jacket?" I demand, frowning disapprovingly as I shrug my own off my shoulders and wrap it around her. It's too big for her, but I like the way she looks in my jacket.

"It's in my new car," she explains, and yawns hugely.

I smirk at her, pleased that she seems to have accepted the car as hers. It brings a warm, fuzzy feeling to my chest. I'm also amused at her sleepiness. She's had quite the day. But I'm still not done with her.

"Tired, Miss Steele?"

"Yes, Mr. Grey. I've been prevailed upon in ways I never thought possible today."

"Well, if you're really unlucky, I may prevail upon you some more," I tell her as I fold her hand in mine, leading her into the apartment building. I need to get her upstairs, and in my bed.

I call the elevator, and it dings immediately. We step inside.

As we ascend to my apartment, I find Anastasia gazing at me, her eyes dark with lust, her cheeks flushed incrementally. She frowns, and bites down on her lip.

Fuck. In the position I'm in right now, I'd like to fuck her against the elevator wall. But not tonight. She wouldn't have the strength.

I take her chin in my fingers and tug. "One day I will fuck you in this elevator, Anastasia," I promise her, "But right now you're tired—so I think we should stick to a bed." I swoop in to take that luscious bottom lip between my teeth, tugging on it gently. Oh, it's so soft, and plump, and delicious. I want her so badly. I need her.

She responds to my advances immediately, groaning softly and clamps her own teeth around my top lip. The feeling sparks sensation in my groin, and instantly I'm hard, as she teases me back. I groan at the feeling. The elevator doors slide open, and I grab her hand, pulling her into the foyer of my apartment.

We're in the hallway when the gentleman in me surfaces. "Do you need a drink or anything?" I ask her reluctantly.

"No," she replies, and relief floods me. Straight to the fucking then.

"Good. Let's go to bed."

She raises her eyebrows at me, clearly surprised. "You're going to settle for plain old vanilla?"

I cock my head to the side, processing her words. Settle? I don't think I'm settling for anything. "Nothing plain or old about vanilla—it's a very intriguing flavor."

"Since when?" she asks me.

"Since last Saturday," I explain. "Why? Were you hoping for something more exotic?" Honestly, I'm not sure she's up for it.

"Oh no," she assures me, "I've had enough exotic for one day."

"Sure? We cater for all tastes here—at least thirty-one flavors," I joke, grinning at her.

"I've noticed."

I shake my head back and forth. "Come on, Miss Steele, you have a big day tomorrow. Sooner you're in bed, sooner you'll be fucked, and sooner you can sleep."

"Mr. Grey, you are a born romantic," she snaps sarcastically.

"Miss Steele, you have a smart mouth. I may have to subdue it some way. Come," I tell her, leading her through the living area, down the hallway, into my bedroom. I kick the door shut behind me.

"Hands in the air," I tell her.

Immediately, she sticks her hands up, and in one swift move—impressing even myself—I remove her dress. "Ta-da!" I crow, feeling playful.

She giggles, applauding my actions, playing along.

I bow at the waist, unable to hide my grin. This is just too much fun. I abandon her dress on the chair by the dresser.

"And for your next trick?" she teases.

"Oh, my dear Miss Steele. Get into my bed, and I'll show you," I growl at her.

"Do you think that for once I should play hard to get?" she inquires, still teasing.

Hard to get? I feel my eyebrows lift in surprise. I'm surprised, and yet insanely turned on. No one's played hard to get before, and if it's anything like the way she said 'no' at the dinner table this evening, I might just enjoy it.

"Well… the door's closed. Not sure how you're going to avoid me. I think it's a done deal."

"But I'm a good negotiator," she says.

"So am I." I stare down at her, overwhelmed with lust, and then suddenly, something occurs to me. Does she not want to? "Don't you want to fuck?"

"No," she whispers.

"Oh," I say, and I frown. Huh. I can't deny the wave of disappointment that crashes inside me. I was hoping I'd get to have her once more tonight—

"I want you to make love to me."

Her words are quiet, but I hear them clearly. I freeze, staring at her. For a second I'm shocked, numb, and then I'm angry with her for requesting such a thing. Now I'm feeling a little lost. Disoriented, even. "Ana, I…" I start, running both hands through my hair. What am I going to say? I don't have a clue. I don't make love—I wouldn't even know where to start. I think back to her first time, and I guess I was pretty successful then. "I thought we did?"

"I want to touch you," she says, completely serious, bold.

_No!_

Involuntarily, my feet propel me backward a step, filled with panic. No. Anastasia makes me feel safe—but I can't ever let her touch me. Most of all, I can't let her see my fear.

"Please," she breathes.

"Oh no, Miss Steele, you've had enough concessions from me this evening. And I'm saying no." I try to make my words sound playful, to soften the blow.

"No?" she asks.

"No," I confirm. "Look, you're tired, I'm tired. Let's just go to bed," I suggest.

She's still processing my answer. "So touching is a hard limit for you?" she asks me.

"Yes," I answer, slightly peeved, "This is old news."

"Please tell me why," she begs me.

Suddenly, I'm frustrated. "Oh, Anastasia, please. Just drop it for now."

"It's important to me," she beseeches.

Exasperated, I run both my hands through my hair. "Fuck," I mutter softly. This woman is impossible. Why on earth does she want to see so deeply inside me? There's nothing there, just ugly, disgusting truths to share. Ugly, disgusting truths I have no interest in bringing into the light.

I turn and take a t-shirt from my chest of drawers. I toss it at her, and reflexively, she catches it. Her brows are knit together, confused. "Put that on and get into bed."

She turns away from me, removing her bar and pulls the t-shirt over her head. Turning back to me, she looks a little sheepish. "I need the bathroom," she whispers.

I frown at her. "Now you're asking permission?"

"Er… no," she says.

"Anastasia, you know where the bathroom is. Today, at this point in our strange arrangement, you don't need my permission to use it," I snap at her, unable to hide my irascibility.

As she heads into my bathroom, I take my shirt off, and then my pants. I exchange them for a pair of pajama pants, and then cross my bedroom to knock on the door.

"Come in," she calls, her mouth full of something.

I enter, finding her at the sink, brushing her teeth. Upon further inspection, I realize that she is using _my_ toothbrush. Some of the tension leaves my muscles, amused at the finding. I step up to the sink next to her as she rinses the toothbrush off and hands it to me. I take it from her and put it in my mouth. Her lips lift in a smirk of her own, and the realization that she is amused as well releases more tension.

"Do feel free to borrow my toothbrush."

"Thank you, Sir," she says, and smiles at me, candy-sweet. She turns on her heel and heads back into my bedroom.

I finish brushing my teeth, shaking my head at the way things are turning out. I imagined coming home and fucking her, not having serious discussions about why I don't like to be touched. As I go back into my bedroom, I find myself feeling irritated again.

"You know this is not how I saw tonight panning out," I tell her.

"Imagine if I said to you that you couldn't touch me," she says from where she's sitting in my bed.

I climb onto the mattress and sit with my legs folded, facing her. "Anastasia, I've told you. Fifty shades. I had a rough start in life—you don't want that shit in your head. Why would you?"

"Because I want to know you better," she urges blue eyes wide with sincerity.

"You know me well enough," I insist. I really don't want to tell her these things. Anastasia is as innocent as someone gets. She doesn't need to be tainted by my past.

"How can you say that?" she asks, rising up on her knees.

I roll my eyes at her, exasperated. She is so insistent, and so stubborn.

"You're rolling your eyes," she tells me, "Last time I did that, I ended up over your knee."

"Oh, I'd like to put you there again," I confess.

"Tell me and you can."

"What?" _What?_

"You heard me." Her face is impassive, serious as a heart attack.

"You're bargaining with me?" I ask her in disbelief.

She nods at me. "Negotiating."

"It doesn't work that way, Anastasia," I insist. This is so fucked up. This is not the way this arrangement is supposed to work.

"Okay, tell me, and I'll roll my eyes at you."

I can't help it—I laugh at her. After a moment, my mood evens out, sober once more. "Always so keen and eager for information," I observe of her. I pause, and then climb off the bed. "Don't go away," I tell her, and leave her sitting in my bed.

I can't deny it—I'm turned on by her asking me to spank her. I jog up the stairs to the playroom, unlocking the door. On the chest is the new set of Ben Wa balls I recently purchased, especially for this occasion, though not exactly in the way it seems to be panning out.

I return to where Anastasia waits in my bedroom quickly, impatiently.

"When's your first interview tomorrow?" I ask her.

"Two."

Late enough in the day for her to recuperate in plenty of time, then. A slow, easy grin makes its way across my face and I am filled with anticipation.

"Good. Get off the bed. Stand over here," I command her, pointing to the spot beside the bed. She obeys quickly, eagerly. "Trust me?"

She nods silently.

I hold out my hand to show her what I'm holding. "These are new," I explain, watching her face for her reaction. She gazes at the balls impassively. Her expression morphs, and now she's curious. Fuck, that expression is hot.

"I am going to put these inside you, and then I'm going to spank you, not for punishment, but for your pleasure and mine." My eyes are still glued to her face, and her eyes go wide as she gasps in astonishment. "Then we'll fuck," I continue, "and if you're still awake" _which I'm not counting on _"I'll impart some information about my formative years. Agreed?"

She nods again.

"Good girl. Open your mouth."

She parts her lips just slightly.

"Wider." Once her mouth is open wide enough, I slip the balls in carefully. "They need lubrication. Suck," I tell her, my voice quiet with the strength of lust, which thrums every nerve ending in my body. With this woman, I am insatiable. I want her body, every inch of it, every hour of the day.

I keep my eyes locked on hers, watching her tongue brush against her cheeks every so often, as she wets the balls. She squirms, and I can tell this is turning her on, as well. I'm already hard, straining against the material of my pajama pants.

"Keep still, Anastasia," I mutter. "Stop." I take the string connecting the balls and pull them from her mouth. I walk over to the bed, throw the duvet out of my way, and perch on the edge of the mattress.

"Come here."

She takes the few steps required, and stands in front of me, watching me carefully. "Now turn around, bend down, and grab your ankles." She blinks at me, hesitating, and irritation flickers in my chest. "Don't hesitate," I chide her, and place the balls in my own mouth, lubricating them further.

She turns, bending at the waist, hands grasping ankles. My t-shirt slips halfway up her back as she bends, revealing her ass and a tantalizing view of her lower back, that creamy, porcelain skin all at my mercy. Oh, I can't wait to spank her again. I've been wanting to all evening, and the fact that she asked me not to earlier, makes me want to do it even more.

I lift a hand almost involuntarily, caressing her backside through her panties. Her ass is absolutely delectable, and one day, I'd like to claim it. But not tonight. I tug her panties aside, revealing her sex, and I bite back my moan of arousal. She is so hot. So mine. Teasingly, I run a single finger up and down her sex, then slip it inside her, twisting it slowly, round and round.

She moans, a heady, sexy sound. I catch my breath at the sound of it, and at the fact that she grows even wetter as she does moan. I circle my finger another time, unable to bite back the gasp at the realization of her arousal. I remove my finger from inside her, and very deliberately, introduce the balls, one at a time. Once they're inside, I pull her underwear back in place and kiss her behind reverently. I really love her ass.

"Stand up."

She straightens, and wobbles a little. My hands clamp down on her hips, to steady her.

"You okay?" I ask her.

"Yes," she almost sighs.

"Turn around." She turns, and my eyes find her face. Her blue eyes are wide, curious, and almost wondrous. "How does that feel?" I'm curious to know.

"Strange," she answers.

"Strange good or strange bad?"

"Strange good," she tells me, and of course, her cheeks color with blush.

"Good." I wrack my brain for an excuse to have her walk around. Once she's moving around with them inside her, she'll really start to feel them. "I want a glass of water. Go and fetch one for me please. And when you come back, I shall put you across my knee. Think about that, Anastasia."

She looks befuddled, but turns and leaves my bedroom, as I've told her to. I fetch a condom and place it on the bedside table, then wait for her to return, and when she does, I find myself searching her face expectantly. She's a tad bit more flushed than before she left the room, but other than that, I can't make anything of her expression.

"Thank you," I say as she passes me the glass. I take a sip, not thirsty at all. I turn to place the glass on the bedside table, next to the condom. I'm taking my sweet time, knowing that my languid pace will tease her. In fact, it's mocking me too.

I turn my gaze back on her. "Come. Stand beside me. Like last time."

She slinks up next to me, and the memory of the first time I spanked her floods my mind—how she was aroused by it, the delicious shade of pink her ass turned.

"Ask me," I murmur, the lust building steadily, filling first my belly, then my chest.

She frowns, obviously not catching on.

"Ask me," I repeat, aware my tone is turning slightly harsh. She doesn't say anything still, and now I'm getting annoyed. "Ask me, Anastasia. I won't say it again."

Realization lights up in her eyes, as I examine her face. "Spank me, please… Sir," she breathes.

Her words light a fire inside of me, and I close my eyes for a moment, drinking them in. I grip her left hand in mine, and pull so that she falls over my lap. As she topples, I lay a hand out on her back, stabilizing her. I bring my hand to her behind, stroking that supple, smooth skin for a moment. Fucking lord, she's perfect.

I stroke her hair out of her eyes and hook it behind her ear, so that I can see her face, her reaction. Once it's out of the way, I gather it into a ponytail at the base of her neck, and clench it in my fist, holding her head in place. I pull softly, exposing more of her face, so that it's easier to see.

"I want to see your face while I spank you, Anastasia," I tell her. My other hand strokes her ass, the entirety of it, over and over, the whole time. I trail my hand down and push against her arousal.

Her eyes cloud as she moans at the sensation.

"This is for pleasure, Anastasia, mine and yours," I remind her, in a whisper. Then I bring my hand up, and down, smacking her firmly—for pleasure, not as a punishment spank—at the place where her thighs meet her behind, and her behind joins her sex.

Her face twists, hey eyes squeezing shut, as she absorbs all the sensations I've evoked in her. It turns me on, seeing her reaction.

I run my hand over her backside again, watching her skin turn pink under the seam of her panties. Desperately, I want to remove them, but I know their barrier will lessen the sting of my blows. I hit her again, the smack reverberating around the room, filling my ears. The sound pleases me. I am in absolute control of this woman. She is mine, all fucking mine.

She groans in response, and we fall into a steady rhythm—left cheek, right cheek, the junction where everything meets. She moans loudest when I hit her there.

Finally, when her ass is a delectable shade of pink, I peel her panties off, and more of that sensitized, red skin is exposed to me. _So beautiful_.

She writhes on my lap, brushing against my very sensitive erection. I have to clench my jaw to bite back my groan. I spank her a few times more, getting close to my breaking point. I'm going to need to fuck her soon.

She groans as I slap her at the junction of her sex and thighs.

"Good girl, Anastasia," I breathe hoarsely, aware that I sound breathless. I spank her one more time, and then once more. I can't take it anymore. I pinch the black thread of the balls in my fingers and pull them swiftly from inside her.

She gasps loudly at the sensation, and I flip her onto her back. I snatch the condom off the bed and rip it open, pulling it out and sliding it on. I stretch out beside her and capture her hands in mine, pulling them above her head to restrain her, and I move over her, inside of her.

Oh, yes. Oh fucking yes. She is so tight and wet and warm. She moans loudly as I slide into her.

"Oh, baby," I breathe as I begin to thrust in and out of her, savoring the slow, unhurried tempo, the feeling, the sensation over me, under me, all around me, inside me. She is the most beautiful woman I've ever been with, and not only in the physical sense. There is so much more to her than meets the eye. She's intelligent, perceptive, a little sarcastic, kind, self-assured.

Moments later, Ana comes, and as her muscles clamp down around me, it triggers my own orgasm. Violent white noise fills my insides, and I'm blind with bliss, with ecstasy.

"Ana," I gasp, overwhelmed. As the orgasm fades, I feel myself begin to, as well. Abruptly, I am exhausted, and I relax my weight over her, panting to catch my breath again.

Once I've gained some composure, I lean back so that I can see her face. It fills my vision. "I enjoyed that," I tell her, and I kiss her lips softly.

I push the rest of my body weight up and off of her, to my feet. I cover her with the duvet and cross my bedroom, into the bathroom. I remove the condom, tossing it in the wastebasket. I collect a bottle of lotion from my medicine cabinet, and carry it back into the bedroom. I want to rub some into her behind before she falls asleep. I lower myself, to sit on the mattress beside her.

"Roll over," I order softly. She turns onto her front, eyes hooded. It won't be long before she's asleep and abrupt, intense relief floods my insides, and the space between them.

My gaze falls to her behind. "Your ass is a glorious color," I tell her appreciatively, and I squirt some lotion into my palm. I rub it into her behind gently.

"Spill the beans, Grey," she says, and yawns.

I freeze up. Shit. She hasn't forgotten. "Miss Steele, you know how to ruin a moment."

"We had a deal," she reminds me.

"How do you feel?" I ask her, hoping to distract her.

"Shortchanged," she admits.

I sigh, and slip underneath the covers next to her. She's warm under the duvet, and I pull her to me, careful of her ass, which I'm sure is burning. I plant a kiss behind her ear, deciding on the short story version. It will do.

"The woman who brought me into this world" I will never call her my mother. She doesn't deserve that title "was a crack whore, Anastasia. Go to sleep."

She's silent for a second as she processes my words. Then, "Was?"

"She's dead," I explain.

"How long?"

I exhale long and slow, growing frustrated. I was hoping that would be enough. Obviously not. "She died when I was four. I don't really remember her." But I remember her pimp, and I brace myself against the onslaught of horrific memories that barrage my mind, when I even think of him. "Carrick has given me some details. I only remember certain things. Please go to sleep." I am resigned to the fact that I will have nightmares tonight.

"Good night, Christian," she says, and I'm taken aback by her quick compliance.

"Good night, Ana," I mutter.

Silence, the type of silence that only happens once a conversation is done and over with for the day, falls.

I am terrified to fall asleep.


	24. Chapter 24

**Hi, everyone. So sorry this update took so long. Some complications came up, but please know from here on out, chapters will be updated in a quicker fashion. **

**As always, I am overwhelmed by the amount of positive feedback this fic is receiving. I am so humbled by it. **

**I am so excited for **_**Grey**_** to be released on the 18****th****, but as ecstatic as I am for it, I won't be reading it until I've finished writing this fic. I don't want it to in any way influence how my writing and interpretation goes.**

**But I WILL be getting my hands on it once I'm finished with this fic! That's for sure!**

**Hope all is well with you lovely readers!**

**.**

**.**

_Monday, May 30__th__ 2011 – early morning_

_._

I lay awake for hours, my futile attempts to fall asleep completely failing me.

I retreat to my piano and play well into the early hours of the morning. Daylight is just breaking when I crawl back into bed with Anastasia.

I fall asleep quickly, but wake only two hours later, ready for the day, completely alert. Despite the short amount of time I've been asleep for, I've wound my way around Anastasia's limbs. Blinking sleep from my eyes—I'm in that strange phase of wakefulness where you're so alert it feels like a dream—I detangle myself and get out of bed.

I step into the washroom to brush my teeth. Already, I can feel that my muscles are stiff from the lack of sleep. In my closet I don a pair of sweatpants and a sleeveless grey shirt. I head downstairs for my morning workout, hoping it'll loosen my muscles and give me a bit of energy. I'll need it for the day ahead, seeing as I barely slept last night.

My mind has been going wild since the car ride home last night. I just don't understand why I am so panicked about losing Anastasia. I don't understand why I am tempted to follow her to Georgia. All I know is that I don't want her out of my sight. She's brought a strange sort of calm into my life—and yet, an exhilaration I have never known. Those eyes captured me from the moment she fell into my office, and they haven't released me since.

Once I've reached my limit, I head back upstairs to the apartment and into my bedroom. Anastasia is still sleeping, sprawled across my mattress, lips slightly parted, breathing deeply. Her arms are stretched over my side of the bed, searching for my missing body I presume.

I stare at her for an indulgent moment before I head into the en suite to shower. I allow the hot water to cascade over my back, my head, my face. It feels good to just stand under the stream for awhile. I clean myself off, dress in my closet, and head out into the main area.

Mrs. Jones is in the kitchen, bustling around, as is her usual Monday morning manner.

"Good morning, Mr. Grey. How was your weekend?"

"I had a spectacular weekend," I answer her, completely honest, and intercept her bewildered, but pleased expression.

She recovers quickly, however.

"Breakfast, Mr. Grey?" she asks.

"Not now," I tell her, "I'll wait to eat with Anastasia."

I head down the hall toward my study and dial Andrea for an update. By now, I would be at the office, but I'm kind of feeling a slow morning. I'll take care of some business from home for the next few hours. I want to get in as much time with Anastasia as I can before she needs to leave for her interviews.

I was supposed to meet with Ros this morning, but she's typically very flexible. I have Andrea bring me up to date with a few things, and then have her transfer me over to Ros.

"Ros," she answers crisply.

"Grey here," I tell her.

"Good morning." She pauses. "Are you not in the office yet?"

"Not quite. I'm taking a slow morning."

My answer obviously catches her off guard, because she's quiet for a moment, but finally regains her composure. She jumps into a promotion for a company, who wants to collaborate with us, on some new business ventures.

"Which company?" I inquire, stepping into my office, crossing the floor toward the window.

"Simmons and Jake. They're a distributor."

"How are their stats? Profit and loss?"

"They're a midgrade company, sir. They're… generally on the up curve," she answers.

"Well, what's their annual income?"

Ros rattles off a number I'm not entirely pleased with. I don't like to work with companies beneath a certain margin, and Simmons and Jake don't exactly meet my standards.

"I think they'd really help get us further with the solar cell phone project, Sir," Ros pushes now.

"Unless that company's P&amp;L improves, I'm not interested, Ros," I argue, growing irritated now. Why the hell is she so gung-ho on teaming up with these people? "I'm not carrying deadweight."

"But, Mr. Grey—"

"I don't need any more lame excuses," I snap at her. She needs to drop this shit. Usually, Ros and I work well together, but there comes a time when we disagree. This is one of them.

"Yes, Sir," she mumbles.

"Have Marco call me, it's shit or bust time."

"Yes, Mr. Grey. Shall I tell Barney to go ahead with the cell phone prototype?" she asks, switching gears, directing the topic towards something I'm more interested in, finally.

"Yes, tell Barney that the prototype looks good, though I'm not sure about the interface," I say, thinking back to the picture attachments I received from her yesterday afternoon.

"Would you like Barney to start over on that?"

"No," I tell her, "it's just missing something… I want to meet him this afternoon to discuss."

"I'll arrange that, Sir."

"In fact, him and his team, we can brainstorm."

"Certainly, Mr. Grey."

"Okay. Transfer me back to Andrea." She does, and I wait for my PR to pick up. I'll arrange a meeting with Barney for this afternoon once she picks up.

"Andrea here," she answers finally.

"Andrea," I start, but something catches my attention, out of the corner of my eye. Anastasia is standing in the doorway to my office, in just my t-shirt. What is it about Anastasia in my t-shirt? Those long bare legs… Very distracting.

I barely notice the smile making its way across my face until it threatens to crack my cheeks.

I am the luckiest man on the planet, without a single doubt. She is so marvelous.

"Clear my schedule this morning," I say to Andrea, forcing myself back to the task at hand, "but get Bill to call me. I'll be in at two. I need to talk to Marco this afternoon, that will need at least half an hour."

"Of course Mr. Grey. Anything else?" she asks. I can hear her tapping at her computer on the other end of the line, but my eyes are glued to Anastasia. I'm very much in this room, in this moment. I am hyper aware of the air around at me, and the space that stretches too far between Anastasia and I.

"Schedule Barney and his team in after Marco or maybe tomorrow, and find time for me to see Claude every day this week." I need the extra energy output while Anastasia's gone.

"Done, Sir. Damien would like the go ahead to launch the promotion for Darfur."

"Tell him to wait," I tell her. We're not quite ready for that, and Andrea should know that, seeing as I'm booking another meeting with Barney this very afternoon.

"Okay, and regarding the publicity for the Darfur shipment—"

"Oh."

"—it's been scheduled for Friday."

"No, I don't want publicity for Darfur."

"Sir, it's already been booked…"

"Tell Sam to deal with it," I demand.

"Yes, Sir. No publicity at all?"

"No," I confirm.

"Alright. Will you be attending the event next Saturday, Mr. Grey?"

"Which event?" I inquire.

"The J&amp;J silent auction, sir."

"That's next Saturday?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Hold on."

I pull the phone away from my ear and turn to Anastasia.

"When will you be back from Georgia?" I ask her.

"Friday," she responds.

I pull the phone back to my ear. "I'll need an extra ticket because I have a date."

"A date?" Andrea inquires, incredulous. I can hear the shrill shock in her voice.

"Yes, Andrea, that's what I said, a date." I say, trying to suppress the amusement rising inside me. Though this is all very new to me as well, I'm really enjoying the shock of the people around me. "Miss Anastasia Steele will accompany me."

"Yes, Sir. I'll arrange another ticket. Is that all?"

"That's all," I tell her, and hang up the phone.

Finally, I can turn toward Anastasia and focus all my attention on her.

"Good morning, Miss Steele."

"Mr. Grey," she returns, and smiles sheepishly at me.

I round my desk and go to her. Softly, I stroke my fingers against the incremental pink flush coloring her cheeks.

"I didn't want to wake you, you looked so peaceful. Did you sleep well?" I inquire. _Because I sure as hell didn't._

"I am very well rested, thank you," she says, "I just came to say hi before I had a shower."

_A shower_, I think as she gazes up at me for a very long moment. Hmm… Anastasia, wet and naked, in my shower…

I stoop to kiss her, and though I'm gentle, she responds immediately, throwing her arms around my neck, pressing me closer. I feel her fingers knot themselves in my hair and the sensation is exquisite.

I'm taken aback by her advance, slightly, but it doesn't take long for me to return her ardor. A low groan rises in my throat, and I comb my fingers into that long, dark hair of hers, then skirting down her back. I take her naked behind in my grasp, squeezing firmly. Oh, that ass.

Finally, I force myself to pull back, overwhelmed with lust.

"Well, sleep seems to agree with you. I suggest you go and have your shower, or shall I lay you across my desk now?" Lust, like a lion, purrs in my chest. I cannot get enough of this woman. I am insatiable when it comes to her.

"I choose the desk," she tells me, her voice barely a breath, wild and impassioned.

I'm surprised by her response. She seems just as insatiable as I am, and the thought pleases me immensely. For someone so new, not just to this, but to everything regarding this, she's caught up quickly.

"You've really got a taste for this, haven't you, Miss Steele?" I ask her, "You're becoming insatiable."

"I've only got a taste for you."

Lust knots my insides together, and all the blood in my body rushes south, below my waistline. The sensation consumes me, and I revel in it as I massage my fingers into her naked ass, which I'm still holding. _Only for me. Yes, Miss Steele. You. Are. Mine. All mine._

"Damn right, only me."

In one move, I clear the contents of my desk, and I lay her across its surface.

"You want it, you got it, baby," I murmur, pulling a condom from my pocket, undoing my zipper in the same instant. Once the condom is on, I gaze down at her, where she lays underneath me, staring up at me with those wide, searing blue eyes.

"I sure hope you're ready," I whisper to her, and grin. _Because I sure as fucking hell am._

I enter her swiftly, deeply, her wrists manacled in my hands, pinned to her sides.

My jaw drops at the marvelous sensation. So deep, so tight, so wet and so warm. Anastasia groans loudly.

"Christ, Ana. You're _so_ ready," I whisper, in absolute awe of this woman. Her body is so perfect, so responsive to me, only me.

She lifts her legs and wraps them around me, and I begin to thrust maddeningly inside her. She groans again, her head tipping back, her lips parting in pleasure, as she squeezes her eyes shut.

_Yes, baby, feel it. This is what I do to you_.

And what she does to me.

The pleasure builds quickly, a rapid inferno gaining heat inside me. Clenching my muscles tightly, the pressure building swiftly.

If I could do this and only this, for the rest of my days, I would. Being with her is not only an addiction, an obsession of mine, but a carnal need—which becomes more and more potent each day. Three months of this will not be enough for me—six months won't either. I don't think I can focus on a timeline, but all I know is that forever might not even be enough. I need her to want to be my submissive for an unforeseen amount of time, because she does things to me no other woman has ever done. She calms me and soothes me, and yet builds this ravenous exhilaration inside me, all at the same time.

She gives me control, and none, all at the same time. She gives me peace and recklessness, humor and sobriety.

She is everything, all-consuming, overwhelming.

I can feel her getting closer now, her legs tightening around me, her muscles clenching spasmodically around me.

"Come on, baby, give it to me," I beg her, through clenched jaw, because I am so close, and I _need_ her to come before I do.

She comes undone beneath me, shouting her pleasure wordlessly, and as she loses all semblance of control, so do I, stilling as I pour myself into her. The pleasure blinds me for a moment, and all I can sense is her, her, her—around me, inside me. Her scent, her warmth, the feel of her body, the sound of her rapid breathing.

My muscles are jelly. I collapse onto her, breathless, unable to form even a coherent thought, let alone words.

"What the hell are you doing to me?" I whisper pleadingly, because I really want to know. I burrow my nose into her neck, inhaling her scent. "You completely beguile me, Ana. You weave some powerful magic."

I remember that I'm still holding her wrists, and I let them go. Her hands lift, her fingers weaving themselves into my hair, combing softly. I suppress my groan, as lighting bolts of pleasure shiver down my spine. Incrementally, I feel her legs clamp firmer around me.

"I'm the one beguiled," she breathes.

I pull back just slightly, so I can look down at her. She gazes back at me, an unreadable expression on her face. Wide eyed.

No. She can't see me that way. I'm fucked up. I'm no good. She can't see that? After everything I've fucking told her? I'm a disgusting excuse for a man, but I'm so awed and thankful that she's stayed this long, and that she's seemed to accept every part of me, despite what I am.

She is more than I ever could have imagined a woman could be.

Suddenly, fervent passion grips me, possesses me, and I take her face in my hands. She needs to hear these words.

"You. Are. Mine. Do you understand?"

"Yes, yours," she promises, her voice still a breath.

"Are you sure you have to go to Georgia?"

She nods, and abruptly, I'm numb—but not before anger and rage and desperation and fear and anxiety all rip their way through my body. Since Ana came into my life, it's been getting harder to suppress those feelings. I'm still able to block them out, but not before they leave a trail of acid in my veins. I hate feeling those things—especially the desperate fear.

I pull out of her, tucking myself, and the knotted condom, away.

"Are you sore?"

"A little," she says sheepishly.

"I like you sore. Reminds you where I've been, and only me." I take her chin in my hand and plant a hard kiss on her lips, possessive and domineering.

I hope she's sore for a few days—I want her to be physically reminded of me, even when she's away in Georgia.

.

"Would you like something to eat?" I hear Mrs. Jones inquire of Anastasia, just as I'm making my way to the kitchen.

"No, thank you," I hear her respond.

"Of course you'll have something to eat," I interject. I'm aware I sound a tad impatient, but Andrea's getting on my nerves. I've just hung up the phone with her for the second time this morning. She's shoving too many things in my face—I'd like to have some peace and quiet for just one morning. "She likes pancakes, bacon, and eggs, Mrs. Jones."

"Yes, Mr. Grey," she says, "What would you like, sir?"

"Omelet, please, and some fruit," I tell Mrs. Jones, but my eyes are glued to Ana, who stands by the kitchen island in That Dress. Her hair, still slightly damp—I force my eyes not to narrow at the realization—is pulled back into a bun. The way her hair is pulled away from her face causes her features to stand out a little bit more, and I find myself examining them intensely, almost as if trying to commit them to memory. She really can't be leaving me, can she? I fight the raging anxiety boiling in my gut.

"Sit," I command of her, pointing to the barstool she stands nearest to.

She slips into the seat I've gestured to, and I follow suit.

"Have you bought your air ticket?"

"No, I'll buy it when I get home—over the Internet," she explains.

"Do you have the money?" I tease her, but really I know she doesn't. One can hardly make a living off a part-time job at Clayton's—which she's now finished with.

"Yes," she tells me, and something about her tone is condescending.

I raise an eyebrow in warning at her, knowing I need not say anything. She's had enough practice to know what the outcome will be if she continues with that smart mouth of hers.

"Yes, I do, thank you," she's murmuring quickly, correcting herself for her sassy behavior.

"I have a jet," I offer, trying to make it seem like I've just thought of the idea, but a lot of thought has already gone into it. "It's not scheduled to be used for three days; it's at your disposal."

Her jaw literally drops open, her eyes widening as she stares blankly at me. A moment later, she seems to recover herself.

"We've already made serious misuse of your company's aviation fleet. I wouldn't want to do it again," she says.

"It's my company, it's my jet," I find myself defensive. I feel offended by her words. _My company's aviation fleet. _No. It's _my_ aviation fleet.

"Thank you for the offer," she tells me softly, her eyes wide and so blue and sincere, "But I'd be happier taking a scheduled flight."

I bite back my further argumentations. I know she'll decline my offer to purchase her first class ticket, so I won't ask, I'll just do it. After I've dropped her off back at her apartment.

"As you wish. Do you have much preparation to do for your interview?" I inquire, moving on to the next subject.

"No," she answers.

"Good. You're still not going to tell me which publishing houses?" I'm assuming now, but I still hope she'll tell me. I hate to be left in the dark like this, regarding her career. I'll be able to tell whom she works for once she has a job, seeing as I have Welch at my disposal, but in the meantime, it's driving me up the wall.

"No."

_Welch can track cell phones, too,_ I suddenly realize. _I could virtually follow her to her interview._ An involuntary smirk lifts my lips, as the idea dawns.

"I'm a man of means, Miss Steele."

"I am fully aware of that, Mr. Grey. Are you going to track my phone?"

"Actually," I tell her honestly, "I'll be quite busy this afternoon, so I'll have to get someone else to do it." She thinks I'm joking, but really I'm not, and my smirk deepens.

A dubious expression knots her brows together momentarily, and then smooth's itself so quickly, it's almost as if it was never there.

"If you can spare someone to do that, you're obviously overstaffed," she says.

"I'll send an e-mail to the head of human resources and have her look into our head count," I joke.

She smiles softly in response, and I find myself staring at her a moment longer. Day in and day out, I am marveled by the simple beauty of her.

Mrs. Jones brings our breakfast to the bar then, and after she's finished tidying up, leaves us to our lonesome.

For awhile, we eat in silence. After a few minutes, I see Anastasia glance up at me, almost bashful, but with a strange curious look on her face. As if she's dying to know something vitally important.

Abruptly, I am overcome with just as much curiosity to know what she's so curious about.

"What is it, Anastasia?"

"You know, you never did tell me why you don't like to be touched," she murmurs.

I feel every muscle inside my body clench, revolt, at her words.

Physically, I feel myself pale, just at the thought of the whole concept. The curiosity I felt earlier lights into a flame of irritation.

"I've told you more than I've ever told anybody," I admit to her, not exactly delving into the answer, but instead avoiding it. Surprisingly, my voice is gentle, as I gaze into her eyes.

She stares at me for a second, a million emotions passing through her eyes, and then she shakes her head slightly.

"Will you think about our arrangement while you're away?" I beg of her, thrown off kilter by the suddenness of the emotions rising up in me in this moment. It's suddenly imperative that she agrees to be mine, that she signs and 'locks herself in', as a means.

"Yes," she acquiesces.

"Will you miss me?" I ignore the way my question makes me feel like a small child.

She stares impassively at me for a long moment.

"Yes," she finally answers.

The single word makes my insides very warm. "I'll miss you, too," I whisper to her, because saying the words louder than that feels wrong, "More than you know."

.

It has been a long afternoon of meetings and business, and I am wiped by the time Taylor picks me up from the office.

Things seem to be moving at a better pace with the solar cell, which I am very excited about. This could mean big things for us.

As I settle into the backseat of the Audi and Taylor pulls away from the curb, an e-mail notification from my Blackberry dings.

…

**From:** Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Interviews

**Date: **May 30 2011 18:49

**To: **Christian Grey

Dear Sir,

My interviews went well today.

Thought you might be interested.

How was your day?

Ana

…

I find myself smiling as I read over her message. I'm suddenly aware that the warm sensation I'm feeling blooming in my chest is fondness. I am fond of Miss Steele, in a way I never have been with any of my other submissives—anyone other than my family, really, but in this new, exciting way, all at the same time.

What is this woman doing to me?

I find myself pondering over the thought for a long moment, and a few minutes pass obviously, as I sit and think.

Suddenly, I'm aware of myself again, and hit 'reply'.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **My Day

**Date: **May 30 2011 19:03

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Dear Miss Steele,

Everything you do interests me. You are the most fascinating woman I know.

I'm glad your interviews went well.

My morning was beyond all expectations.

My afternoon was very dull in comparison.

Christian Grey  
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Fine Morning

**Date: **May 30 2011 19:05

**To: **Christian Grey

Dear Sir,

The morning was exemplary for me, too, in spite of you weirding out on me after the impeccable desk sex. Don't think I didn't notice.

Thank you for breakfast. Or thank Mrs. Jones.

I'd like to ask you questions about her—without you weirding out on me again.

Ana

…

This woman really _does _see right through me. And I thought I'd hidden myself from her so well, afterwards.

_What about Mrs. Jones?_

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Publishing and You?

**Date:** May 30 2011 19:10

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Anastasia,

"Weirding" is not a verb and should not be used by anyone who wants to go into publishing. Impeccable? Compared to what, pray tell? And what do you need to ask about Mrs. Jones? I'm intrigued.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

It takes her several minutes to reply, and when the e-mail does come through, I'm immediately worried at the subject title. I read on hastily.

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **You and Mrs. Jones

**Date: **May 30 2011 19:17

**To: **Christian Grey

Dear Sir,

Language evolves and moves on. It is an organic thing. It is not stuck in an ivory tower, hung with expensive works of art and overlooking most of Seattle with a helipad stuck on its roof.

Impeccable—compared to the other times we have… what's your word… oh yes… fucked. Actually the fucking has been pretty impeccable, period, in my humble opinion—but then, as you know, I have very limited experience.

Is Mrs. Jones an ex-sub of yours?

Ana

…

I am horrified at Anastasia's question, and abruptly very angry with her. How could she think something like that of Mrs. Jones?!

Taylor has pulled up at Escala now, and I head for the elevators.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Language. Watch Your Mouth!

**Date: **May 30 2011 19:22

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Anastasia,

Mrs. Jones is a valued employee. I have never had any relationship with her beyond our professional one. I do not employ anyone I've had any sexual relationships with. I am shocked that you would think so. The only person I would make an exception to this rule is you—because you are a bright young woman with remarkable negotiating skills.

Though, if you continue to use such language, I may have to reconsider taking you on here. I am glad you have limited experience. Your experience will continue to be limited—just to me. I shall take impeccable as a compliment—though with you, I'm never sure if that's what you mean or if your sense of irony is getting the better of you—as usual.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc., from His Ivory Tower

…

I am in my apartment when I receive her reply.

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Not for All the Tea in China

**Date: **May 30 2011 19:27

**To: **Christian Grey

Dear Mr. Grey,

I think I have already expressed my reservations about working for your company. My views on this have not changed, are not changing, and will not change, ever. I must leave you now, as Kate has returned with food. My sense of irony and I bid you good night.

I will contact you once I'm in Georgia.

Ana

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Even Twinings English Breakfast Tea?

**Date: **May 30 2011 19:29

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Good night, Anastasia.

I hope you and your sense of irony have a safe flight.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

Despite the fact that I know she'll be safe and well in first class, I turn off my screen and head toward the shower, ignoring the chasm of doom and gloom that begins to open up inside me.


	25. Author's Note

**Just a quick author's note. I assure you, I'll have the next chapter up today.**

**.**

**I wanted to address something very briefly.**

**I've been accused of plaigirism twice now, in the reviews. Allow me to assure you that every word—aside from the obvious dialogue—is every bit my creation. I have never copied a word of anyone else's writing, let alone entire chapters.**

**Also, allow me to remind you, that there is a very brief margin of creativity one can have on this type of fic. I try and create as much as I can, but honestly, most of my fiction has to do with the interactions between Ana and Christian—for obvious reasons. This is what the entire story is based on: their relationship.**

**.**

**I do not appreciate being called a liar and being accused I am copying. So please stop; and next time you try and accuse me of something, please get your facts straight.**

**Because, again, I assure you, I am confident enough in my writing, to not need to copy another author's. ;)**

**.**

**Thank you to all the rest of my loyal readers! I appreciate your support so much! **

**xo**


	26. Chapter 26

**I want to thank everyone so much for their support on my note, last chapter. It's helpful to know I have so many supporters.**

**I know it's easy to misread the fictions and mistake them for each other, as they are all similarly written—obviously. **

**Things have blown over now, and I'm not taking anything to heart.**

**.**

**I'm also realizing we're on the last few chapters of this fic, and it's making me kind of emotional. I'm also very excited for Grey—which comes out in 2 days! You may see an influx of updates, as I write as quickly—but with as much quality—as I can, so that I can get around to reading Grey!**

**.**

**.**

_Monday, May 30__th__ 2011 – Late Evening_

_._

I haven't gone to bed. I've stayed up late doing business, and now sit in the living room, reading the latest book from my favorite author. It's not very often that I read a book, but I've exhausted everything else in my arsenal, and I am still terrified to go to bed without Anastasia.

I know I'll have nightmares—I know it, and part of me just doesn't want to go to sleep at all.

My Blackberry _pings._

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Over-Extravagant Gestures

**Date: **May 30 2011 21:53

**To: **Christian Grey

Dear Mr. Grey,

What really alarms me is how you knew which flight I was on.

Your stalking knows no bounds. Let's hope that Dr. Flynn is back from vacation.

I have had a manicure, a back massage, and two glasses of champagne—a very nice start to my vacation.

Thank you.

Ana  
…

I am made giddy by not only the appearance of her email, but the content as well. I had to wait for her to book her airline ticket before I could upgrade it, as I hadn't known which exact flight she'd be on. Welch helped me with that after she'd purchased it. It's very nice to read that she's enjoying herself already. That's what I'm here for—I like to take care of her. What's more—I like when she enjoys it and thanks me for it.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **You're Most Welcome

**Date: **May 30 2011 21:59

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Dear Miss Steele,

Dr. Flynn is back, and I have an appointment this week.

Who was massaging your back?

Christian Grey

CEO with friends in the right places, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

I smirk at my witty signature, amused at even myself. I can be funny when I want to be. I wait a few minutes for her response, but don't receive one for awhile. She must be boarding. I return to my book.

I'm into the fourth chapter of my book when I receive her response.

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Strong Able Hands

**Date: **May 30 2011 22:22

**To: **Christian Grey

Dear Sir,

A very pleasant young man massaged my back. Yes. Very pleasant indeed. I wouldn't have encountered Jean-Paul in the ordinary departure lounge—so thank you again for that treat. I'm not sure if I'll be allowed to e-mail once we take off, and I need my beauty sleep since I've not been sleeping so well recently.

Pleasant dreams, Mr. Grey… thinking of you.

Ana

…

Annoyance, anger and amusement twist a knot of emotions inside me at her words. On one hand, the candor of her email is impressive, and yet comical. I know exactly what she's attempting—she wants to rile me up, and I believe it has worked. For the most part, it's the amusement that shines through, however, and I allow it to dictate my reply.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Enjoy It While You Can

**Date: **May 30 2011 22:25

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Dear Miss Steele,

I know what you're trying to do—and trust me, you've succeeded. Next time you'll be in the cargo hold, bound and gagged in a crate. Believe me when I say that attending to you in that state will give me so much more pleasure than merely upgrading your ticket.

I look forward to your return.

Christian Grey

Palm Twitching CEO,

Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Joking?

**Date: **May 30 2011 22:30

**To: **Christian Grey

You see—I have no idea if you're joking—and if you're not, then I think I'll stay in Georgia. Crates are a hard limit for me. Sorry I made you mad. Tell me you forgive me.

A

…

I'm a tad taken aback. My mood deflates immediately. Here I was having fun and goading her, while all the while it's making her nervous and afraid. And has her considering staying away from me.

Immediately I regret my email.

_You fucking moron,_ I chide myself.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Joking

**Date: **May 30 2011 22:31

**To: **Anastasia Steele

How can you be e-mailing? Are you risking the life of everyone on board, including yourself, by using your Blackberry? I think that contravenes one of the rules.

Christian Grey

Two Palms Twitching, CEO,

Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

I am grateful when she doesn't respond. Somewhere in the time I read her email and responded to it, the regret changed to anger, and I try to suppress it now.

I put down my book, and head into my bedroom—to finally face the night I'm dreading.

.

I wake in a panic, damp with sweat, heart pounding. Surprisingly, I haven't called out. All the same, waking up like this is shitty, really shitty. From where I've reflexively propped myself up on my elbows, I lower myself onto my back, staring up at my bedroom ceiling.

My bedroom feels very quiet, and very empty—too empty. The morning light is just shining through, breaking its way past my windowpane. It spills across my bedroom floor, and the sight of it calms my breathing a tad. The pitch black of night always has a way of making things… scarier.

Inhaling deeply through my nose, my heart rate calming and my breathing falling into a more even keel, I reach for my Blackberry. It is still plugged in on my side table, and as I unplug it and pull it toward me, I see that I have a few new emails. I scan them quickly, skipping over a few business related emails when I see that Anastasia has emailed me back. I received it at about 3:50 in the morning—almost seven her time. It's just past here, now, which means it's nine o' clock where she is.

I read through her lengthy email very thoroughly, taking in each word, drinking it in. I am equally as exasperated and relieved that she's being so honest with me now. I just wish she'd have the bravado to do it in person.

Before I can think too much more about the rest of her email, I compose my reply—a stream of consciousness of sorts.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Finally!

**Date: **May 31 2011 07:30

**To: **Anastasia Steele

.

Anastasia,

I am annoyed that as soon as you put some distance between us, you communicate openly and honestly with me. Why can't you do that when we're together?

Yes, I'm rich. Get used to it. Why shouldn't I spend money on you? We've told your father I'm your boyfriend, for heaven's sake. Isn't that what boyfriends do? As your Dom, I would expect you to accept whatever I spend on you with no argument. Incidentally, tell your mother, too.

I don't know how to answer your comment about feeling like a whore. I know that's not what you've written, but it's what you imply. I don't know what I can say or do to eradicate those feelings. I'd like you to have the best of everything. I work exceptionally hard so I can spend my money as I see fit. I could buy you your heart's desire, Anastasia, and I want to. Call it redistribution of wealth, if you will. Or simply know that I would not, could not _ever_ think of you in the way you described, and I'm angry that's how to perceive yourself. For such a bright, witty, beautiful young woman, you have some real self-esteem issues, and I have half a mind to make an appointment for you with Dr. Flynn.

I apologize for frightening you. I find the thought of instilling fear in you abhorrent. Do you really think I'd let you travel in the hold? I offered you my private jet, for heaven's sake. Yes, it was a joke, a poor one obviously. However, the fact is the thought of you bound and gagged turns me on (this is not a joke—it's true). I can lose the crate—crates do nothing for me. I know you have issues with gagging—we've talked about that—and if/when I do gag you, we'll discuss it. What I think you fail to realize is that in Dom/sub relationships it is the sub who has all the power. That's you. I'll repeat this—you are the one with all the power. Not I. In the boathouse you said no. I can't touch you if you say no—that's why we have an agreement—what you will and won't do. If we try things and you don't like them, we can revise the agreement. It's up to you—not me. And if you don't want to be bound and gagged in a crate, then it won't happen.

I want to share my lifestyle with you. I have never wanted anything so much. Frankly, I'm in awe of you, that one so innocent would be willing to try. That says more to me than you could ever know. You fail to see I am caught in your spell, too, even though I have told you this countless times. I don't want to lose you. I am nervous that you've flown three thousand miles to get aware from me for a few days, because you can't think clearly around me. It's the same for me, Anastasia. My reason vanishes when we're together—that's the depth of my feeling for you.

I understand your trepidation. I did try to stay away from you; I know you were inexperienced, though I would never have pursued you if I had known exactly how innocent you were—and yet you still manage to disarm me completely in a way that nobody has before. Your email for example: I have read and reread it countless times trying to understand your point of view. Three months is an arbitrary amount of time. We could make it six months, a year? How long do you want it to be? What would make you comfortable? Tell me.

I understand that this is a huge leap of faith for you. I have to earn your trust, but by the same token, you have to communicate with me when I am failing to do this. You seem so strong and self-contained, and then I read what you've written here, and I see another side to you. We have to guide each other, Anastasia, and I can only take my cues from you. You have to be honest with me, and we have to both find a way to make this arrangement work.

You worry about not being submissive. Well, maybe that's true. Having said that, the only time you do assume the correct demeanor for a sub is in the playroom. It seems that's the one place where you let me exercise proper control over you and the only place you do as you're told. "Exemplary" is the term that comes to mind. And I'd never beat you black and blue. I aim for pink. Outside the playroom, I like that you challenge me. It's a very novel and refreshing experience, and I wouldn't want to change that. So yes, tell me what you want in terms of more. I will endeavor to keep an open mind, and I shall try to give you the space you need and stay away from you while you are in Georgia.

I look forward to your next email.

In the meantime, enjoy yourself. But not too much.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

And before I can think too closely about what I've just written, I hit 'send'.

Before I can focus too much on the knot and tension building in the base of my belly, I head for my closet. I haven't looked forward to a session with Claude more.

.

Most of the day passes in lulls and drags. Sometime later, I receive the text message that she's arrived safely in Georgia. It releases a pressure inside me I hadn't realized I'd been holding in.

For the rest of the day, I'm a little more patient with my colleagues and staff members.

I'm just coming out of a meeting with the board, and stepping back into my office, when my Blackberry begins to buzz in my pocket. For a fleeting moment, I hope it's Anastasia, calling me, but it's only Andrea. She asks me a few inane questions, and I've only just hung up with her when I receive another call.

I'm not altogether surprised by the name on the Caller ID. I sent an email to this person this morning, trying to sort out some of the racing thoughts that have been running through my head about this entire ordeal with Anastasia.

"Elena," I say in answer.

"Christian, hello," she replies. "How are you?"

I allow an indulgent smirk to grace my face at her question. Any other day I'd be fine. "I'm feeling a lot of things these days, Elena."

"Tell me about it, Christian. What's been going on?"

I sigh, and lower myself onto the edge of my desk. "Well—as you know, I have a new sub."

"Yes—Anastasia, is it?"

"Yes."

There's a momentary pause on the other end. Finally, she says, "I'm sensing there's something different going on with this sub."

A scoff of laughter escapes me. "Oh, definitely. I'm glad you called me—I'd like to meet for dinner. I'd like your advice, Elena." I trust Elena with anything. We've become very close friends since our Dom/sub relationship, and my feeling with her is that I could tell her anything, without judgment, without feeling self-conscious. I trust her advice, and I trust her standpoint on life. Anything she has to say about this, I will take to heart.

We agree to meet later.

.

Around three o' clock, I receive an email from Anastasia. I'm in yet another meeting, but it's dry as paper, so I think I can afford to keep just an ear open.

I pull up the email on my Blackberry.

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Verbose?

**Date: **May 31 2011 16:08 PST

**To: **Christian Grey

.

Sir, you are quite the loquacious writer. I have to go to dinner at Bob's golf club, and just so you know, I am rolling my eyes at the thought. But you and your twitchy palm are a long way from me so my behind is safe, for now. I loved your e-mail. Will respond when I can. I miss you already.

Enjoy your afternoon.

Your Ana

…

I welcome the feeling that floods me as I read her email over. It's warm, very warm, and inflating.

I dwell on the thought of her luscious ass for a moment, and smirk to myself as I type in the subject title.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Your Behind

**Date: **May 31 2011 16:10

**To: **Anastasia Steele

.

Dear Miss Steele,

I am distracted by the title of this e-mail. Needless to say it _is_ safe—for now.

Enjoy your dinner, and I miss you, too, especially your behind and your smart mouth.

My afternoon will be dull, brightened only by thoughts of you and your eye rolling. I think it was you who so judiciously pointed out to me that I, too, suffer from that nasty habit.

Christian Grey

CEO &amp; Eye Roller

Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

Four minutes later, her reply comes through.

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Eye Rolling

**Date: **May 31 2011 16:14

**To: **Christian Grey

.

Dear Mr. Grey,

Stop emailing me. I am trying to get ready for dinner. You are very distracting, even when you are on the other side of the continent. And yes—who spanks you when you roll your eyes?

Your Ana

…

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Your Behind

**Date: **May 31 2011 16:18

**To: **Anastasia Steele

.

Dear Miss Steele,

I still prefer my title to yours, in so many different ways. It is lucky that I am master of my own destiny and no one castigates me. Except my mother, occasionally, and Dr. Flynn, of course. And you.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

I wait a few minutes for her reply, really trying to concentrate on the conversation at hand.

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Chastising… Me?

**Date: **May 31 2011 16:22

**To: **Christian Grey

.

Dear Sir,

When have I ever plucked up the nerve to chastise you, Mr. Grey? I think you are mixing me up with someone else… which is very worrying. I really do have to get ready.

Your Ana

…

I allow myself to imagine Anastasia strutting around the guest room of her mother's Georgia house, in a towel, getting ready for dinner… Hmm…

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Your Behind

**Date: **May 31 2011 16:25

**To: **Anastasia Steele

.

Dear Miss Steele,

You do it all the time in print. Can I zip up your dress?

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

Her reply makes me shift in my seat, and I know I should put a stop to this and focus on my colleagues, but I just can't bring myself to do it.

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **NC-17

**Date: **May 31 2011 16:28

**To: **Christian Grey

.

I would rather you unzipped it.

…

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Careful what you wish for…

**Date: **May 31 2011 16:31

**To: **Anastasia Steele

SO WOULD I.

Christian Grey,

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Panting

**Date: **May 31 2011 16:33

**To: **Christian Grey

Slowly…

…

Suddenly, I'm considering flying to Georgia just to fuck Anastasia. Because I'm really wanting to, right about now.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Groaning

**Date: **May 31 2011 16:35

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Wish I were there.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Moaning

**Date: **May 31 2011 16:37

**To: **Christian Grey

SO DO I.

…

My attention has been diverted by the team for just a moment. I mutter a quiet assent to Boch's inquiry, not really sure what's going on.

My Blackberry buzzes in my lap—where something else is also discreetly buzzing—and I glance down.

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Moaning

**Date: **May 31 2011 16:39

**To: **Christian Grey

Gotta go.

Laters, baby.

…

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Plagiarism

**Date: **May 31 2011 16:41

**To: **Anastasia Steele

You stole my line.

And left me hanging.

Enjoy your dinner.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

.

"Good evening, Sir," Taylor greets me, pulling open the door to the Audi. "How was your day?"

"Fine, Taylor," I reply. I climb into the passenger seat and buckle up.

Taylor rounds to the driver's side, and pulls away from the curb.

The drive home is pretty quiet, aside from a few pleasantries.

I've had a long day at work, and I'm exhausted. Probably because I didn't get a very good sleep last night. Despite the fact, I'm looking forward to dinner with Elena. I'm eager to hear what she thinks about all of this.

Taylor pulls up in front of Escala, and I climb out, heading inside and to the elevator. A smartly dressed couple rides halfway up with me, and then I'm on my own for the rest of the way.

Upon entering the great room, I find Mrs. Jones standing in the kitchen.

"Hello, Mr. Grey. How are you this evening?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Jones."

"Can I get you dinner?"

"Actually, I'm going out for dinner tonight, Mrs. Jones. Please save it for tomorrow."

"Certainly, Mr. Grey."

I head past her and into my bedroom, going through the tedious motions of getting ready for dinner without really thinking. My mind is too focused on what I'm going to say to Elena.


	27. Chapter 27

**Ahh! Grey comes out tomorrow! I am so, so excited. **

**At the same time, we're nearly at the end of this fic, and as excited as I am to finish it, I'm also a bit sad. This journey has been amazing.**

**I know for sure I'll be taking a break to focus a bit more on my other fic, but don't give up hope!**

**If you're just following this fic, be sure to follow my pen name, so that you can keep an eye out for the next book from Christian's perspective, when I get around to it. Because I'm pretty sure I will; it's just a matter of time.**

**.**

_Tuesday, May 31 2011 7:45 pm_

I climb into the Spyder in the parking garage, run a hand through my hair and twist the key in the ignition. The engine purrs to life, and I feel its vibrations reverberate in my chest cavity. Oh, how I've missed driving this baby…

I head off down the street, toward our usual meeting place—the mile high club. Their champagne is superb, though I'll be limiting myself, seeing as I'm driving.

When I reach the restaurant, the hostess sees me to a table.

"Will it just be yourself dining with us this evening, Mr. Grey?" she asks.

"No, I'm waiting for one more," I inform her.

"Can I get you something to drink while you wait?"

I order a bottle of champagne, knowing we probably won't drink it all, but I can buy the whole bottle, so I'll buy the whole bottle.

It doesn't take long before Elena arrives, dressed impeccably in a deep red dress, her hair pulled away from her face with a hair comb. She approaches me, kissing me on both my cheeks. I rise to greet her, and once she's sitting, take my seat across from her. The waiter approaches and pours her a glass of champagne.

We watch each other without speaking for a moment before the waiter steps away.

Elena's eyes soften as she appraises me. "You look different, Christian," she observes.

"Do I?" I muse.

Her eyes narrow just slightly, in concentration. "This submissive is making you different," she guesses.

I sigh, leaning back in my chair. "Very."

Elena mimics my position, her hands knotted loosely in her lap. "Tell me about her."

I shake my head, overwhelmed by the many directions I could go. "There's so much I could say," I tell her, and I intercept the surprise registering in her eyes. I don't talk about my submissives in too much depth with her, usually, simply because there's never much to talk about. "As you know, her name is Anastasia, and…" I shake my head, pausing, trying to organize my myriad of thoughts into a cohesive sentence. "She's magnificent, Elena. She's heart-stoppingly beautiful, but she's bright and witty and intelligent, at the same time. She keeps me on my toes, she _challenges_ me, something I never thought I'd like, but it's new and refreshing."

Elena appraises me, but doesn't say anything. One of her hands rests alongside her face. For a moment I wonder if I see apprehension flash across her face, but if I have, it's gone too soon, so I can't be sure.

"She's gone to Georgia to be with her mother, to put some space between us. She says she can't think clearly when she's with me, and to be honest, my thoughts are a bit incoherent around her, as well. But it's killing me that she's gone; I can't figure out my emotions. I… I miss her. And I've never missed anyone in my life. Aside from my family."

"If you miss her, you should go and see her," Elena suggests, as if it's the simplest thing in the world. "You have an air jet at your disposal, Christian," she says when she sees the hesitation on my face, "It wouldn't be difficult to find yourself there."

"It's not that," I tell her, shaking my head slowly back and forth, "I asked if I could accompany her. She asked me not to."

"Since when has that stopped the Christian I know?" she challenges, sounding a little miffed.

Slowly, I smirk at her. Silence falls between us as our food arrives. The waiter asks if he can get us anything else, and I allow Elena to answer, because I've pulled out my Blackberry and am making a call.

Taylor answers on the second ring. "Mr. Grey," he greets me. "What can I do for you?"

"Arrange for the jet, please. I'm flying to Georgia tonight."

.

I land in Savannah at just past two in the morning. I am very exhausted, and my Blackberry has died during the flight.

My ears pop as we descend. Beside me, Taylor grunts as he wakes, the pressure in his ears rousing him. I slept for most of the way, but for the past hour I haven't been able to sleep, despite the fatigue which plagues me. The thoughts in my brain have been going round and round like a whirlwind. For most of the flight I've been consumed by the thought of seeing her again. I want to meet her mother, whom she seems so fond of. I want to see what she loves so much about this place.

But as the jet's wheels touch the tarmac, sudden anxiety blossoms in my gut like a pariah. What if she's angry with me that I've come to see her? What if she doesn't want to see me? What if she sends me away? If I've come all this way to see her and she rejects me, I'll be crushed.

We exit the plane and I climb languidly into the car Taylor has arranged to have waiting. I've booked a room at the nicest hotel in town already. The drive over is not very long, and as soon as I'm in room 612, I dress down and drop in to bed, too tired to even plug in my phone.

.

_June 1__st__ 2011 – late morning_

When I wake, it's dark—thank to the heavy panels covering the windows, but I know it can't be the middle of the night still. I'm much too rested for that.

I roll over from where I've been sprawled in the sheets—I haven't even dreamed, I slept so deeply—and glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It's half after eleven o' clock, and I'm so startled by the time that I bolt upright in bed.

Shit. I've slept too long.

And my phone is dead.

I cross the room to where I've left my back and scrounge inside for my phone charger. As soon as it's plugged in and it has enough powers, all my missed calls, emails and texts begin coming through.

I set my laptop up on the room's desk and head into the bathroom. I take a leak and then climb into the shower. The water is hot, and the stream beats into my back, the perfect amount of pressure. It massages away the trace amounts of lethargy left over from my late flight, and my sleep in. I scrub the hotel's shampoo through my hair and soap my body off. Once I'm clean, I climb out and wrap a fluffy white towel around my waist, heading back into the main room.

My screen is open to my inbox. Anastasia's is one of the first emails I see, but for now, she'll have to wait. I've missed almost half a day of business, and I need to do some catching up before I can even think about going to see her.

As I scroll through the varying messages, I order room service. I'm absolutely starving, my stomach growling something fierce.

I type a few replies to people who need immediate answers. I've been absent for a long enough period of time that I've missed a few important things. Being the CEO of a mega-company is a very dedicated job. Tasks are not easily delegated.

My food arrives, and I drink my coffee and eat my omelet and fruit before I get back to work. I schedule a few video conferences for the day and explain my sudden absence to more than a few associates. Then I dive in to the rest of the emails and missed calls, knowing that I have my day cut out for me. Sometimes, business comes first, but tomorrow, I'll go and see Anastasia, at the address I've received from Welch—the reason I came to Georgia in the first place.

.

It's much later in the day, and things finally seem to be slowing down. Or maybe I'm just catching up. After I finish the dinner I've ordered from room service, I decide to head down to the bar for a drink—I deserve one after the day I've had.

I send Taylor a quick text to let him know where I'm going, in case he comes looking for me, and lock the door behind me. As I head down the hall, I finally open up Anastasia's email—which she sent to me the night before. I feel slightly guilty that I'm only responding now, but she must be busy anyway, with her mother. She can't be waiting on my reply, can she?

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Suitable Dinner Companions

**Date: **May 31 2011 23:58 EST

**To: **Christian Grey

.

I hope you and your friend had a very pleasant dinner.

Ana

P.S. Was it Mrs. Robinson?

…

Sighing, I type out my reply. I can't say I'm not slightly annoyed by this side of Anastasia.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Dinner Companions

**Date: **June 1 2011 21:40 EST

**To: **Anastasia Steele

.

Yes, I had dinner with Mrs. Robinson. She is just an old friend, Anastasia.

Looking forward to seeing you again. I miss you.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

I jam the elevator call button with my thumb and step back to wait for it. A few feet away, a couple stands too close, the man whispering in the woman's ear. She blushes bright scarlet, and immediately, I'm aching for Ana. Maybe I'll call her and let her know I'm in town after I get my drink.

I'd really like to see her. My missing her has become a visceral, physical feeling. Rather than an abundance of too much emotion, however, it's an empty, yearning feeling. I'm desperate to fill it.

My phone _pings_ as the elevator doors open. I step in after the couple. They hit the lobby button, and I step into the corner to give them as much privacy as possible. I wonder what they'd get up to in this elevator if I weren't here… The thought brings me back to my first kiss with Anastasia, in the elevator at the Heathman. Was that really only a few weeks ago?

We descend to the first floor, and the couple allows me exit first.

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **OLD Dinner Companions

**Date: **June 1 2011 21:42 EST

**To: **Christian Grey

.

She's not just an old friend.

Has she found another adolescent boy to sink her teeth into?

Did you get too old for her?

Is that the reason your relationship finished?

…

I feel the back of my neck color with heat, in response to her brash email. What the fuck is her issue with Elena?

Irritation—which has seemed to lie dormant for awhile now—rises into my chest, constricting it.

As I enter the bar, I find it's a tad busy. Appropriate, for the time of day, I suppose. So, it doesn't surprise me.

What does surprise me, however, is when I look over the heads of the people, from the entrance of the bar, and I find a very familiar face.

On the table between her and her mother, sits three collective empty Cosmopolitan glasses. I wonder which are Anastasia's.

The anger simmers, rising closer to a boil. She's breaking more rules, and the thought makes me even more infuriated.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Careful…

**Date: **June 1 2011 21:45 EST

.

This is not something I wish to discuss via e-mail.

How many Cosmopolitans are you going to drink?

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

I press 'send' and stand watching her, waiting for her to receive the email. I can only see her profile as she reads over the email, and then her face whips up, turning and scanning the bar, for my face I presume.

I'm unexpectedly amused by the fact that I've surprised her so much, and carefully, I slip my way between the patrons of the bar, making my way toward Anastasia and her mother, where they sit across the room.

She's still searching, and I watch her mother's lips move, asking her a question. Anastasia responds, and she must have alerted her mother, because now she's looking for me, too. I wonder if she even knows what I look like. Maybe Anastasia showed her pictures?

My eyes are glued to Ana, so I watch the moment she finds me register on her face, in those clear blue eyes. Oh, I've missed those eyes. She's wearing a pretty green top. It looks lovely against her sun kissed skin, and it makes her eyes look bluer than they actually are.

I reach their table.

"Hi," she greets me, and her tone piques. Her eyes are as wide as saucers as she takes me in. Does she realize I'm watching her rake my chest with her gaze?

"Hi," I respond, and because I'm so happy to see her—happier than I thought I would be—I swoop in and plant a soft kiss on her cheek. I'd like to pull her out of her seat and kiss her more passionately than that, but her mother is sitting right here, and I haven't even met her yet.

"Christian," she says as I pull back, "this is my mother, Carla."

I turn towards Carla Adams, who looks very much like her daughter, plus a few laugh lines, and minus some of the wave in Anastasia's hair. She must get that from Ray.

"Mrs. Adams," I greet her, "I am delighted to meet you." I give her a polite smile. I don't miss her dropped jaw and have to bite back my amused grin. So Anastasia isn't the only woman in her family who thinks I'm attractive. Alas, I'm attracted to her daughter, and not Mrs. Adams. This relationship will have to stay on platonic terms—something I'm entirely okay with. Mrs. Adams is old enough to be my mother—a young mother, and a flicker of thought strays toward the crackwhore. I shove it down quickly as I shake Mrs. Adam's hand.

"Christian," she responds, a tad breathless.

I can't hide my knowing grin now, though I try in vain.

"What are you doing here?" Anastasia demands of me, something in her tone uneven, upset, and immediately my grin evaporates. Shit. Does she not want me here? Was I correct to be anxious about this?

"I came to see you, of course," I tell her, trying not to let the terror show on my face. I've mastered this mask of mine, and I know it's on my face now. I'd rather Anastasia see nothing at all, honestly. "I'm staying in this hotel." _Please don't send me away, I've missed you more than you've known. _

"You're staying here?" she asks, her tone piquing to that high-pitched level again.

"Well, yesterday you said you wished I was here," I remind her. Was that rhetorical, or did she actually mean it? I'll feel like a fucking idiot if she didn't mean it. "We aim to please, Miss Steele."

An anxious moment passes like an electrical current between us.

"Won't you join us for a drink?" Carla interjects now, and motions for the waiter. He is here in an instant, and immediately my guard goes up. _Keen on my girl, guy?_

I give my order—Hendricks with cucumber, or Bombay Sapphire with lime. It's not a complicated order, but the waiter blinks at me. He'd better get it right. I won't be impressed if he doesn't.

"And two more Cosmos, please," Ana butts in. I force myself not to glare at her—I think she's had enough, judged by the blush in her cheeks and the heat in her eyes—but her mother's here, and I'm putting on the boyfriend act. I can't go Dom on her right now, not here.

"Please, pull up a chair, Christian," Carla suggests.

"Thank you, Mrs. Adams," I tell her, gripping the top of a nearby chair. I pull it around and lower myself into it, next to Ana. I catch a whiff of her, and nearly have to close my eyes at the influx of it. Oh my, she smells good. I've missed her sweet, sultry scent. I want to lean in, press my nose to her neck, and inhale it more potently, but it wouldn't be prudent in the middle of a bar, in front of her mother whom I've just met.

"So you just happen to be staying in the hotel where we're drinking?" Anastasia asks now, her tone brokenly hard—I can tell she's trying to reign it in—and I remember she's mad. So maybe I shouldn't be thinking so hard about my face in her neck, or between her breasts, or her thighs. Oh… I force myself to focus. She's angry with me, and I should be remembering that I'm irritated with her as well; for her sassy emails, but more so for her excessive drinking. I have half a mind to send her drink back when it comes, but I won't.

"Or you just happen to be drinking in the hotel where I'm staying," I correct her. "I just finished dinner, came in here, and saw you. I was distracted, thinking about your most recent e-mail, and I glance up and there you are. Quite a coincidence, eh?"

"My mother and I were shopping this morning and on the beach this afternoon. We decided on a few cocktails this evening," she explains in a low murmur.

"Did you buy that top?" I ask her. "The color suits you. And you've caught some sun. You look lovely."

Her cheeks pink, and the sight makes me smile. I've missed that blush.

"Well, I was going to pay you a visit tomorrow. But here you are," I say. Before I can help myself, I reach for her hand, capturing it in mine. I squeeze it gently, reveling in the feel of her skin against my skin again. I sweep my thumb across her knuckles affectionately. As I do so, I feel that familiar buzz in my veins. The abruptness of the lust fuzzes my brain, and through the slight incoherency, I watch her reaction. I hear her breath hitch, and she smiles bashfully at me.

I smile back at her, knowing the effect I'm having on her. Does she know the way she's affecting me? The way I'd like to see her skin underneath that tank top, past the point where her tan stops—for only my eyes? To hold her as close as humanly possible, to have her cradle me between her thighs… Oh, I want her.

"I thought I'd surprise you," I tell her, thinking of the way I'd planned to just show up on her mother's doorstep tomorrow, "But as ever, Anastasia, you surprise me by being here." I don't miss the double meaning in my words.

Anastasia glances away from my face, across the table at her mother. Her brows knit as she scowls at her. I don't take my eyes off Anastasia's face.

"I don't want to interrupt the time you have with your mother," I say, suddenly feeling as if I'm interrupting something. "I'll have a quick drink, and then retire. I have work to do."

"Christian, it's lovely to meet you finally," Carla says, "Ana has spoken very fondly of you."

I turn to smile at her. "Really?" I ask her, raising an eyebrow at Anastasia. I'm amused, but I'm also very flattered. Most of all, I'm relieved. To be spoken of at all, let alone fondly, is nice to hear, after she's travelled across the continent to get away from me.

Anastasia's cheeks color again, of course.

The waiter is back.

"Hendricks, sir," he announces, setting the drink in front of me with a not-so-subtle embellishment.

"Thank you."

Anastasia brings her drink to her lips and drinks.

"How long are you in Georgia, Christian?" Carla inquires now.

"Until Friday, Mrs. Adams," I tell her, deciding it just this moment. I hadn't given much thought to how long I'd be here. I suppose the entire time Anastasia's here, unless she asks me otherwise.

"Will you have dinner with us tomorrow evening?" she asks, then adds, "And please, call me Carla."

"I'd be delighted to, Carla," I tell her.

"Excellent. If you two will excuse me, I need to visit the restroom." She stands and strides away, and I turn my attention to Anastasia, who is staring after her mother desperately. What, does she not want to be left alone with me?

"So, you're mad at me for having dinner with an old friend." I lift her knuckles to my lips, kissing each one selectively. I want to get this over with, because I'd really like to take her up to my hotel room and fuck her, if she'll allow it.

"Yes," she assents softly.

"Our sexual relationship was over long ago, Anastasia," I assure her in a whisper, "I don't want anyone but you. Haven't you worked that out yet?"

Her eyelashes flutter as she blinks. "I think of her as a child molester, Christian," she admits.

I feel the blood drain from my face. _What the fuck?___A child molester? I could never think of Elena in that way. She's one of my closest friends, and in all senses of the word, she saved my life. Yes, I was young, but Anastasia is taking this completely out of context.

"That's very judgmental. It wasn't like that," I breathe. I hear the shock in my voice. Almost unconsciously, I let go of her hand.

"Oh, how was it then?" she challenges, made bold by the alcohol coursing through her system.

I frown at her, disconcerted. I have no idea how to explain it, in a way that she will understand. I've never had to explain what went on between Elena and I to anyone. I've never felt the need to. I never saw anything wrong with it.

Anastasia brazenly continues on: "She took advantage of a vulnerable fifteen-year-old boy. If you had been a fifteen-year-old girl and Mrs. Robinson was a Mr. Robinson, tempting you into a BDSM lifestyle, that would have been okay? If it was Mia, say?"

I gasp, and can't hide my glare. "Ana, it wasn't like that." I have to fight not to snap at her.

She scowls right back at me.

"Okay," I amend, "It didn't feel that to me. She was a force for good. What I needed."

"I don't understand," Anastasia admits, her expression befuddled.

"Anastasia, your mother will be back shortly. I'm not comfortable talking about this now. Later, maybe." I make the promise through clenched teeth. I really would like to never talk of this again. "If you don't want me here, I have a plane on standby at Hilton Head. I can go."

"No—don't go," she begs, "Please. I'm thrilled you're here." _Thrilled?_ Relief and elation floods my bloodstream. "I'm just trying to make you understand. I'm angry that as soon as I left, you had dinner with her. Think about how you are when I get anywhere near Jose. Jose is a good friend. I have never had a sexual relationship with him. Whereas you and her…" Her words fade, that faint pucker appearing between her eyebrows.

Awareness hits me all at once. "You're jealous?" Abruptly, I'm amused. Anastasia, jealous of Elena. Well, well.

"Yes, and angry about what she did to you," she replies.

"Anastasia, she helped me," I tell her emphatically. How else am I going to get this across to her? "That's all I'll say about that. And as for your jealousy, put yourself in my shoes. I haven't had to justify my actions to anyone in the last seven years. Not one person. I do as I wish, Anastasia. I like my autonomy. I didn't go and see Mrs. Robinson to upset you. I went because every now and then we have dinner. She's a friend and a business partner." She seems surprised by that fact, the astonishment changing her expression. "Yes, we're business partners. The sex is over between us. It has been for years."

"Why did your relationship end?" she asks.

I feel my lips form a grim line. "Her husband found out." I try to tame the nearly unmanageable anger that opens up in my belly at that memory. _Piece of shit-scum asshole…_

"Can we talk about this some other time—somewhere more private?" I beg.

"I don't think you'll ever convince me that she's not some kind of pedophile," Anastasia admits.

"I don't think of her that way," I push, her words offering no help to the growing rage inside me, "I never have. Now that's enough!"

"Did you love her?" she asks, her voice softer now, maybe in response to my angry words.

"How are you two getting on?" Carla interrupts, having returned.

Anastasia and I both lean back—I hadn't been aware we'd been inclined toward each other, and I watch as she pastes the fakest smile I've ever seen, across her face.

"Fine, Mom."

I sip my drink, appraising Anastasia as I think through her question. Did I love Elena? I thought I had, in the beginning. I remember the beating I got for telling her that. I was grateful to her for how she stepped into my life, changed the course of it, really. And I had mistaken that for love. I know better now.

"Well, ladies, I shall leave you to your evening," I decide, ignoring Anastasia's forlorn expression. "Please, put these drinks on my tab, room number 612. I'll call you in the morning, Anastasia. Until tomorrow, Carla."

"Oh, it's so nice to hear someone use your full name," Carla enthuses.

"Beautiful name for a beautiful girl," I say, shaking her hand once more.

Anastasia rises with me, gazing at me expectantly, and I know she wants me to answer her question. I kiss her cheek once more.

"Laters, baby," I whisper, and then I turn my back and head through the crowd.

I head back up to my room, alone in the elevator this time. As I enter, my Blackberry begins to ring, and I answer it hastily.

It's Harper, and he has bad news.

As he runs through the details of the mistake, I hear a knock on my door. I cross the room to open it and find Anastasia standing there, as Harper rattles in my ear. I'm shocked to find her there, blinking a couple times, and then usher her in, pulling the door wide.

"All the redundancy packages concluded?" I ask him as she slips past me.

"Yes, Sir," he replies.

"And the cost?"

"1.2, sir. Million."

I whistle through my teeth. "Sheesh… that was one expensive mistake. And Lucas?"

He explains the state of the colleague member in question, and as he expounds, I watch Anastasia take in the room. I go over to the mini bar, pulling open the door. I gesture toward it, offering her a drink the only way I can right now.

I walk into the bedroom, acknowledging what Harper is saying, but only half-listening now. The details he's talking about aren't really important at this point. I cross the bedroom carpet and go into the bathroom. I turn the taps, beginning to fill the tub. I light a few candles around the perimeter and head back into the front room, where I see Anastasia has helped herself to an orange juice. I approve of the sight of the bottle in her hands. She's had enough alcohol for one evening—for half a week, even. In my books, at least.

"Have Andrea send me the schematics," I tell Harper, "Barney said he cracked the problem."

"Yes, Sir. Will we see you in the office tomorrow?"

I laugh. "No, Friday."

"Doing business in Savannah, Sir?"

"There's a plot of land here that I'm interested in," I explain, which isn't all together untrue. It wasn't, however, the main reason I came. But it has been on my mind the past few weeks.

"Would you like me to have Bill contact you, Sir?" Bill is our real estate associate.

"Yeah, get Bill to call."

"This evening yet, Sir?"

"No, tomorrow. I want to see what Georgia will offer if we move in."

I watch Anastasia fiddle with the orange juice in her hands. I hand her a glass and point to the ice bucket.

I finish the conversation quickly, hang up, and now I can finally focus my attention on Anastasia.

"You didn't answer my question," she tells me softly.

"No. I didn't," I agree. Why is she here? Simply to get an answer to her question?

"No, you didn't answer my question, or no, you didn't love her?"

I cross my arms over my chest and lean back against the wall. I smile at her, deciding not to answer. I kind of like teasing her like this.

"What are you doing here, Anastasia?"

"I've just told you," she answers.

I take in a breath. "No. I didn't love her," I answer and frown at her. Really, this was the only reason—her pure motive for coming all the way up to my hotel room? Just to figure out if I loved Elena or not?

She visibly relaxes.

"You're quite the green-eyed-goddess, Anastasia," I observe. "Who would have thought?"

"Are you making fun of me, Mr. Grey?" she inquires, sassy. One of her eyebrows lifts, and I wonder if she's aware of it.

"I wouldn't dare," I vow, shaking my head slowly back and forth. I hope the entertainment doesn't show through.

"Oh, I think you would," she contradicts, "and I think you do—often."

I smirk at her, unable to bite it back. She's feeding back the words I've said to her. What a smart mouth. I watch her teeth clamp down on her lower lip, and abruptly, lust stirs in my belly. Fuck.

"Please stop biting your lip. You're in my room, I haven't set eyes on you for nearly three days, and I've flown a long way to see you."

My Blackberry vibrates in my pocket, and I switch it off without checking the Caller ID.

_Do it again, _I beg her silently, _Do it again._

I move toward her, watching her face carefully.

"I want you, Anastasia," I tell her honestly, "Now. And you want me. That's why you're here."

"I really did want to know," she breathes.

"Well, now that you do, are you coming or going?"

I'm standing in front of her now, and I watch the blush rise in her cheeks.

"Coming."

"Oh, I hope so," I murmur wickedly. "You were so mad at me," I whisper.

"Yes."

"I don't remember anyone but my family ever being mad at me. I like it," I tell her. I reach up and run my fingers down her cheek, over that beautiful blush. My heart is pounding out of my ribcage. I need to have her.

I crane my neck, running the tip of my nose along her slightly darkened shoulder, up her neck, to the base of her ear, inhaling her scent the entire way, just as I desired to do in the bar downstairs. I weave my fingers into her dark hair, warm, and it smells like sunshine.

"We should talk," she whispers breathlessly.

"Later," I compromise.

"There's so much I want to say," she urges.

"Me, too," I assure her. I kiss her under her ear, in that soft spot where her pulse thuds, her pounding blood warming her skin. I ease her chin up, her head back. I run my teeth softly over her chin, and leave soft, open-mouthed kisses down the column of her throat. Oh, I've missed this…

"I want you."

A breathy moan escapes her lips, and I feel her hands on my arms.

"Are you bleeding?" I ask her, continuing to leave kisses up the other side of her throat. According to my calculations, she should be. I've been counting down the days, honestly. I can't wait to ditch the damn condoms—I want to feel her, all of her, every ridge, every dip, every inch of her body against every inch of my own.

"Yes," she whispers, and I can feel the warmth of her hard blush against the side of my face, my temple.

"Do you have cramps?"

"No."

I pull back and gaze into her eyes. She's embarrassed. She has no reason to be. It's just a little bit of blood, easily cleaned off.

"Did you take your pill?"

"Yes," she answers.

"Let's go have a bath," I suggest.

I sweep my hand down her arm, take her hand, and lead her into the bedroom. I guide her past the bed, and into the bathroom. The sunken bathtub is slowly filling with water.

"Do you have a hair tie?" I ask, turning to her.

She reaches into the pocket of her jeans and pulls one out.

"Put your hair up," I instruct her.

She does, pulling it up into a messy ponytail. A few strands of hair hang loose, sticking to her neck and face, pasted there by the steam rising from the bath.

I turn off the faucet and lead her to the first part of the bathroom—which is separated into two rooms—and to the sink. There is a wall to wall, ceiling to floor mirror behind the sinks.

"Take your sandals off."

She does.

"Lift up your arms," I whisper. As she does, I pull her tank top over her head, realizing she's not wearing a bra. My eyes glued to hers, I undo the top button of her jeans, and the zipper.

"I'm going to have you in the bathroom, Anastasia," I tell her. I lean in to kiss her neck again. It's slightly slick with moisture, the cooling steam from the tub. I hook my thumbs into the waistband of her jeans and push them over her hips, down her legs—taking her panties along with them.

"Step out of your jeans," I coach her. Anastasia holds on to the edge of the sink for balance, and steps out of her pants.

My face is level with that amazing backside of hers, and I can't help but kiss and nip at it. She gasps loudly at my actions, and I rise behind her. I drink in the sight of her standing naked in front of me, in the mirror.

I bring my hand around, flattening it over her stomach, my fingers and palm nearly covering the entirety of it.

"Feel how soft your skin is," I murmur, taking her hands in mine and moving them in soft, slow circles over her own skin. Then I sweep them up, cupping her breasts in her own hands. "Feel how full your breasts are." Gently, I run my thumbs over her nipples, over and over. They pucker immediately, elongating in response to my touch. _Yes, baby, feel me._

She moans softly, and I watch her face in the mirror, the pleasure on her face as she arches her back. Her breasts push into our hands. I pinch her nipples softly between our thumbs, pulling so that they stand even more erect. She groans, her eyes slipping shut.

"That's right, baby," I urge her.

I slide her hands down the sides of her body, over the curve of her waist and the slight widening of her hips, and then over to her bushel of pubic hair. I slip my leg between hers, urging them apart slightly.

I stroke her hands over her sex, one after the other.

Fuck, this is hot. I am so hard, straining against my jeans.

"Look at you glow, Anastasia," I breathe, and kiss up her shoulder, leaving gentle nips along the way. I release her hands, and take a step back, drinking her in.

"Carry on," I tell her.

She grinds her hands into her sex. I watch for a minute, and then I pull my shirt over my head, and remove my jeans.

"You'd rather I do this?" I ask her, gazing intently into her eyes, which are dark with lust, but desperate—for me, I realize.

"Oh, yes… please," she whispers.

I ease my arms around her once more, pulling her soft, warm body against my own—significantly less clothed now. I take her hands again, resuming the stroking over her sex, across her clit, which is already swollen.

She sighs in pleasure, and I bite the nape of her neck, drinking her in. Her hips push into our hands, and I stop, sensing she's getting closer.

I turn her to face me, manacling her hands in one of mine, behind her back.

With the other, I pull her ponytail, securing her head. I pull her flush to my chest, and I kiss her, pouring every ounce of passion I can into her.

My breathing grows faster quickly, uneven and harsh, matching hers.

"When did you start your period, Anastasia?" I ask her.

"Er… yesterday," she answers.

"Good." I let go of her and turn her around. She'll be well lubricated, and the chance of anything… happening, is at an all time low. "Hold on to the sink." She lifts her hands to grip the edge of it, and I grab her hips, dragging them back incrementally, to bend her over.

I reach between her legs, where the string from her tampon dangles, and I ease it out gently. I toss it in the nearby toilet, barely glancing at it. I barely have time to focus on it, because I'm turning back to her now, and thrusting inside of her.

Oh… So good. We are completely together, no barriers, nothing separating us. I can feel every single inch of her against me.

Soon enough, she's pushing her hips back onto me, thrust for thrust, and I move faster. I slip my hand around, finding her clit again, rubbing it, and almost instantly, I can feel her muscles begin to spasm.

"That's right, baby," I almost groan, grinding into her, aiming for that sweet spot inside of her, and it works.

Her muscles clench around me like a vise, and she moans and calls out, as she rides out her orgasm.

I finish soon after, finding my own release, pressing my chest to her back, calling out her name as I come.

"Oh, baby, will I ever get enough of you?" I breathe, spent, completely and absolutely blissful.

I lower the both of us to the floor, my arms around her, holding her close. She leans her head against my chest, and slowly my heart quits pounding, slinking into an easier rhythm. I would like to hold her like this forever. I don't want to move. And so I don't, for now.


	28. Chapter 28

**So I've purchased 'Grey' and it's sitting in my iBooks library, with a fresh, 'new' sticker on it. It's tempting the hell out of me, so I have officially gone on a writing frenzy.**

_June 1__st__ 2011 – evening_

_._

"I'm bleeding," Anastasia murmurs after a long, quiet moment.

"Doesn't bother me."

"I noticed," she replies sarcastically, and I can almost see the expression on her face, though my view of it is nowhere near.

Suddenly, I feel nervous, and I feel my muscles clench in response to the emotion. "Does it bother you?" I ask her. If it does, I'll feel awful. I never want to push anything she's uncomfortable with on her. Ever.

She lifts her head from my chest so she can gaze at me. Her eyes are limpid pools of blue, completely satisfied. It makes me glow.

"No, not at all," she responds.

"Good. Let's have a bath."

I set her on the floor, and pull myself into a standing position. When I reach down to help Anastasia to her feet, I'm disturbed by the expression on her face. She's horror struck and as white as a sheet.

"What is it?" I'm suddenly flooded with concern for her.

"Your scars," she barely breathes, "They're not from chicken pox."

Before I can think about it—it's an automatic reflex—my walls go up, and I'm angry.

"No, they're not," I bark at her, aware I sound harsh, but the expression on her face has morphed, and now she's looking at me as if I'm a kicked puppy.

I pull her to her feet, maybe a bit roughly.

She never fucking noticed the scars before—why does she have to say something about them now?

"Don't look at me like that," I chasten her, releasing her hand. I can't stand to touch her right now, I realize. I'm at war with the sensations going on inside of me. I need to sort them out before I can be with her again, physically. Emotionally, I suppose, as well.

"Did she do that?" Anastasia whispers now.

Rage so potent it nearly blinds me fills my chest. It leaves me speechless for a minute.

"She?" I finally snap, "Mrs. Robinson? She's not an animal, Anastasia. Of course she didn't. I don't understand why you feel you have to demonize her."

She doesn't say anything, surprising me, and instead just shifts past me, lowering herself into the bath water. She stares up at me, where I'm still standing, stock still.

"I just wonder what you would be like if you hadn't met her. If she hadn't introduced you to your… um, lifestyle."

I exhale slowly, and ease myself into the bath water with her, but I keep careful not to touch her. I can't, just yet.

We stare at each other for a long moment, and I'm standing my own, but so is she, and she must be more determined than I am, because she stares me down like no tomorrow.

Some of the anger dissipates like the foam popping on top of the water, and amusement cracks my composure. I can't fight the smirk that turns the edges of my lips up. So she wins. It may not be a bad idea to tell her anyone. I do want her to trust me, and I need to communicate with her openly—at least a little bit—for that to happen.

"I would probably have gone the way of my birth mother, had it not been for Mrs. Robinson," I admit to her. It feels strange to say this out loud, to her. "She loved me in a way I found… acceptable," I add with a shrug, mostly paraphrasing Dr. Flynn. This is what he theorized about the whole concept.

"Acceptable?" Anastasia whispers.

"Yes," I say, gazing at her fixedly. Her eyes are so probing, yet so open. It's as if she's begging me to tell her more, but at the same time, I know there's no judgment there. I feel free to share with her, and so the next words tumble out of me before I can stop them. There are no barriers when it comes to Anastasia, I am beginning to realize. "She distracted me from the destructive path I found myself following. It's very hard to grow up in a perfect family when you're not perfect."

Shit. I've said too much. I won't say anymore. I watch her closely for her reaction, but she gives nothing away.

"Does she still love you?" she asks now.

"I don't think so," I reply. "Not like that." I frown. My words have been automatic, but I need to think them over. I hadn't thought about the possibility for a long time. "I keep telling you it was a long time ago. It's in the past. I couldn't change it even if I wanted to, which I don't. She saved me from myself." Suddenly I'm irritated with myself. I've said too much again. Fuck, Christian, stop when you say you'll stop. I lift a damp hand and push it through my hair. "I've never discussed this with anyone. Except Dr. Flynn, of course. And the only reason I'm talking about this now, to you, is because I want you to trust me."

"I do trust you," she assures me, "But I do want to know you better, and whenever I try to talk to you, you distract me. There's so much I want to know."

My temper flares again, her words like jet fuel to the fire. For fuck's sake, we've been over this time and time again.

"Oh, for pity's sake, Anastasia. What do you want to know? What do I have to do?" I try desperately to keep my voice calm, and I think I succeed. But I don't know how much longer I can keep my composure.

Her gaze falls to the surface of the water, or maybe even deeper.

"I'm just trying to understand; you're such an enigma. Unlike anyone I've met before. I'm glad you're telling me what I want to know."

Suddenly, she's drifting through the water, coming to sit close by me, too close. Automatically, I flinch when she presses herself against my side.

"Please don't be mad at me," she murmurs, those blue eyes imploring as they search my face.

"I am not angry with you, Anastasia," I assure her, "I'm just not used to this kind of talking—this probing. I only have this with Dr. Flynn and with—" I cut myself off, my lips turning down into a frown. _And with Elena._

"With her. Mrs. Robinson. You talk to her?" I can hear the temper in her tone, though she's trying in vain to hide it.

"Yes, I do," I tell her.

"What about?" she prompts.

I turn toward her, sloshing the water over the sides—the tub is filled very deeply—and throw my arms over her shoulders, resting it on the stone edge. It's cool against my skin, but against the heat of the water, it doesn't bother me.

"Persistent, aren't you?" I mumble, trying to hide my own irritation, though I'm sure it shows through. "Life, the universe—business. Anastasia, Mrs. R and I go way back. We can discuss anything."

"Me?" she breathes.

"Yes," I answer, watching her intently for her reaction.

Surprisingly, she looks angry, and chomps down on that luscious bottom lip.

"Why do you talk about me?" she demands petulantly.

"I've never met anyone like you, Anastasia." I'm still watching her face, trying to decode the anger I see there.

"What does that mean?" she pushes, "Anyone who just didn't automatically sign your paperwork, no questions asked?"

I shake my head, half in disbelief, half in irritation. "I need advice."

"And you take advice from Mrs. Pedo?" she barks.

"Anastasia—enough," I snap back, my temper snapping as quickly as her own. Elena is a good friend of mine, and I've had enough of Anastasia's judgment about her. "Or I'll put you across my knee. I have no sexual or romantic interest in her whatsoever. She's a dear, valued friend and a business partner. That's all. We have a past, a shared history, which was monumentally beneficial for me, though it fucked up her marriage—but that side of our relationship is over." I don't know how else I can explain it, and I hope to the fucking lord this is the last time I have to do it.

"And your parents never found out?" she inquires, most of the heat gone from her voice. She cools off quickly—I wish I could do the same.

"No. I've told you this. Are you done?" I'm aware I'm snappy and short, but I'm done with this topic. I've reached my limit.

"For now," she relents.

I draw in a breath, deep into my lungs, and relax the muscles in my shoulders I hadn't realized were tensed.

"Right—my turn. You haven't responded to my e-mail."

Blush colors her face, and she shakes her head.

"I was going to respond. But now you're here."

"You'd rather I wasn't?" I whisper, forcing that mask forward again. I can't let her see how much I'd be hurt if she said she didn't want me here. Not after all the things I have lined up for us for tomorrow morning.

"No, I'm pleased," she says.

"Good," I mutter in relief, and grin at her. "I'm pleased I'm here, too—in spite of your interrogation. So, while it's acceptable to grill me, you think you can claim some kind of diplomatic immunity just because I've flown all this way to see you? I'm not buying it, Miss Steele. I want to know how you feel."

"I-I told you," she stammers, "I am pleased you're here. Thank you for coming all this way."

"It's my pleasure," I tell her, and lean down to kiss her, because I can, because she's here. As our lips touch, she responds immediately, attempting to deepen the kiss. I pull back.

"No. I think I want some answers first before we do any more."

She exhales a sigh. "What do you want to know?"

"Well, how you feel about our would-be arrangement, for starters."

Her lashes flutter.

"I don't think I can do it for an extended period of time," she admits. "A whole weekend of being someone I'm not." Her cheeks turn pink again, and she stares down at her hands.

I smirk at her, hooking a finger under her chin, tugging so that I can see her eyes once more.

"No, I don't think you could, either," I agree.

"Are you laughing at me?" she inquires, a bit haughtily, if I'm not mistaken.

"Yes, but in a good way," I assure her. Anastasia could never be someone she's not. It's just absolutely not in her nature. I love that about her. I lean down and plant a quick kiss on her lips because of it.

"You're not a great submissive."

She stares at me, eyes wide, for a second, and then sweet, sweet laughter bursts from her. I can't help but join her.

"Maybe I don't have a good teacher," she finally jokes.

I snort. "Maybe. Perhaps I should be stricter with you," I tease, tilting my head to the side, grinning at her.

I watch her throat convulse as she swallows. Anxiety flits through her eyes, and I suppress the dark feeling blooming in the pit of my belly. She's still scared of me.

"Was it that bad when I spanked you the first time?" I inquire.

She stares at me for a moment, seeming to contemplate. Why does she have to think about it so hard? It should be an automatic answer—either it was or it wasn't.

"No, not really," she finally breathes.

"It's more the idea of it?"

"I suppose," she agrees. "Feeling pleasure, when one isn't supposed to."

Her words are familiar. "I remember feeling the same. Takes a while to get our head around it. You can always use the safeword, Anastasia. Don't forget that. And, as long as you follow the rules, which fulfill a deep need in me for control and to keep you safe, then perhaps we can find a way forward."

"Why do you need to control me?" she asks.

"Because it satisfies a need in me that wasn't met in my formative years," I answer, paraphrasing Dr. Flynn once more.

"So it's a form of therapy?"

Yes, I suppose it could be. "I've not thought of it like that, but yes, I suppose it is."

"But, here's the thing," she urges, "One moment you say 'don't defy me', the next you say you like to be challenged. That's a very fine line to tread successfully."

I gaze at her for a long moment, taking a moment to piece together the words. Hmm. I had never thought that much into it. When she puts it that way… I frown. Yes, that must be a difficult line to walk.

"I can see that," I say, "But you seem to be doing fine so far."

"But at what personal cost? I'm tied up in knots here."

"I like you tied up in knots," I quip, smirking.

"That's not what I meant!" she cries, and she sweeps her hand through the water, sending a wave of water into my face.

I stare down at her in amused shock.

"Did you just splash me?"

"Yes," she admits, sheepish.

"Oh, Miss Steele," I murmur, looping my arms around her and pulling her into my lap, caught up in the moment so suddenly, it takes me off guard. Who knew splashing could turn me on? "I think we've done enough talking for now."

.

After she's ridden me in the tub, I drain the water. We dry off and make our way over to the bed.

The sheet is draped over the both of us, pillows hugged to each of our fronts. From where I lay on my side, and Ana on hers, I admire her face. Her hair is slightly damp, loose now, flowing over the pillow.

"Do you want to sleep?" I murmur, suddenly realizing that she could be exhausted.

"No. I'm not tired," she replies.

"What do you want to do?"

"Talk."

I smile at her. To be honest, the answer is unexpected. I was expecting her to want to have sex again.

"About what?"

"Stuff," she says.

"What stuff?" I inquire.

"You."

Reflexively, I'm guarded. "What about me?"

"What's your favorite film?" she asks.

I grin, both relieved and amused by her question. "Today, it's _The Piano_."

Her smile echoes my own. "Of course," she says, "Silly me. Such a sad, exciting score, which no doubt you can play? So many accomplishments, Mr. Grey."

"And the greatest one is you, Miss Steele," I murmur, meaning every single word of it.

"So I am number seventeen."

Abruptly, I'm confused, frowning at her.

"Seventeen?"

"Number of women you've, um… had sex with."

I smirk at her. "Not exactly."

"You said fifteen," she argues, befuddled.

"I was referring to the number of women in my playroom. I thought that's what you meant. You didn't ask me how many women I'd had sex with."

"Oh," she breathes. "Vanilla?"

"No. You are my one vanilla conquest," I assure her, shaking my head. I'm still smiling hugely at her. I can't seem to stop.

"I can't give you a number," I tell her. "I didn't put notches in the bedpost or anything."

"What are we talking—tens, hundreds… thousands?"

"Tens," I say, sort of shocked she would think I could have been with thousands of women. "We're in the tens, for pity's sake."

"All submissives?"

"Yes."

"Stop grinning at me," she chides me, works hard to make for a serious face, but fails miserably.

"I can't. You're funny."

"Funny peculiar or funny ha-ha?" she inquires teasingly.

"A bit of both I think," I goad.

"That's damned cheeky, coming from you," she says.

I stretch across the mattress to kiss her nose. "This will shock you, Anastasia. Ready?"

She nods, those blue eyes wide, still grinning away.

"All submissives in training, when I was training. There are places in and around Seattle that one can go and practice. Learn to do what I do."

"Oh," she says flatly, blinking, clearly shocked.

"Yep, I've paid for sex, Anastasia."

"That's nothing to be proud of. And you're right… I am deeply shocked. And cross that I can't shock you."

"You wore my underwear," I remind her. That shocked the hell out of me.

"Did that shock you?" she asks.

"Yes."

"You didn't wear your panties to meet my parents," I add.

"Did that shock you?"

"Yes."

"It seems I can only shock you in the underwear department," she muses.

"You told me you were a virgin," I point out, "That's the biggest shock I've ever had." I think back to that night, the way I was frozen to the spot. I never would have guessed she would have been so inexperienced.

"Yes, your face was a picture, a Kodak moment," she reminisces, giggling.

"You let me work you over with a riding crop."

Her cheeks warm slightly. "Did that shock you?"

"Yep," I say, popping the 'p'.

She smiles. "Well, I may let you do it again."

"Oh, I do hope so, Miss Steele. This weekend?"

"Okay," she murmurs, bashful.

"Okay?"

"Yes. I'll go to the Red Room of Pain again."

"You say my name," I tell her.

"That shocks you?"

"The fact that I like it shocks me." I usually don't let anyone address my by my first name, other than my family and close friends.

"Christian," she says simply, earnestly.

My grin stretches across my face. "I want to do something tomorrow."

"What?" she asks.

"A surprise. For you," I tell her. I want to show her another side of me.

She arches her right brow, and muffles her yawn.

"Am I boring you, Miss Steele?" I tease her.

"Never," she vows.

I stretch across the mattress again, and kiss her tenderly on the mouth.

"Sleep."

I reach around and turn off the lamp. Darkness falls around us, and Anastasia is soon quiet. My entire body is alive with excitement. I can't wait for the dawn.


	29. Chapter 29

_Thursday, June 2 2011 – 4:30 am_

_._

My Blackberry buzzes, rousing me from the most soundless, peaceful sleep I've had in three days.

I turn off the alarm, glancing at the clock. It's twenty after five in the morning. I lay in bed next to Anastasia, who sleeps blissfully next to me. She's so warm, her bare skin against mine, and I never want to get up.

Alas, I force myself from bed. I brush my teeth and dress in sweats and a t-shirt.

This morning, we're going gliding, and I am so thrilled to be showing Anastasia what it's all about.

I head down to the hotel gym, to get a quick workout on the treadmill in. It's five to five when I get back upstairs. I shower and dress for the gliding endeavor.

I go back into the bedroom, where Anastasia is still sleeping. In the half hour I've been gone, she's shifted her weight across the mattress, stretching across the space where I've been sleeping. I can't help but grin at the sight of her figure, tangled in the white sheet, dim in the darkness of the room.

I pull a pair of my boxers from my bag, toss it on top of her clothes, which sit on the chair by the bed, and lean over to murmur in her ear.

"Anastasia."

She moans in response, turning her ear away from me. In the process, she accidentally offers me her other ear.

"Come on, baby," I urge her, "Wake up."

I nuzzle her ear with my nose. "Wake up, baby."

"Oh… no," she groans, and I pull back to see that her eyes have flickered open.

"Time to get up, baby," I tell her, "I'm going to switch on the sidelight."

"No," she moans.

"I want to chase the dawn with you." I lean over her, leaving soft kisses over her eyelids, her nose, her mouth. Her eyes have closed again, but now they're open once more. "Good morning, beautiful."

She groans again, and I grin. "You are not a morning person."

She squints up at me.

"I thought you wanted sex," she tells me, her voice is still groggy and thick with sleep.

"Anastasia, I always want sex with you. It's heartwarming to know that you feel the same," I tell her, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

Eventually, her eyes widen, adjusting to the invasion of light.

"Of course I do, just not when it's so late," she says.

"It's not late, it's early. Come on—up you go," I urge. "We're going out. I'll take a rain check on the sex."

"I was having such a nice dream," she complains.

"Dream about what?" I inquire.

"You," she says, and blushes.

Hmm… "What was I doing this time?"

"Trying to feed me strawberries," she answers.

Humor quirks my lips up. "Dr. Flynn could have a field day with that. Up—get dressed. Don't bother to shower, we can do that later."

I give her space, and she sits up. As she does, the sheet falls away, revealing her body. In the subdued light of the sidelight, she looks edible. I feel my body responding, but I force my reactions down.

_Later,_ I promise myself.

"What time is it?" she inquires.

"Five thirty in the morning."

"Feels like three a.m.," she says.

"We don't have much time. I let you sleep as long as possible. Come," I urge her. Now that she's awake, the excitement is unfurling into a more potent, visceral feeling inside me. Something like birds beat their wings against the walls of my stomach. I am so excited.

Anastasia smiles at me. "What are we doing?"

"It's a surprise. I told you."

Her smile widens into a grin. "Okay," she says easily, climbing off the mattress. She walks naked over to the chair by the bed, where her clothes lie—along with a pair of my underwear. She slides them up over her hips, and I grin at her. She looks sexy in my underwear.

"I'll give you some room now that you're up," I say, and leave the bedroom, heading into the living area to check my e-mails and update myself on the stocks. My usual morning routine.

In the other room, I hear the shower start up, and I roll my eyes. I told her not to shower. She'd better be quick.

Before I can head back and stop her, there is a knock on the door.

"Room service," a timid voice calls through quietly.

I allow the boy in. He leaves our food, I give him a tip, and by the time I sit down to start eating, the shower has turned off. Good.

A couple minutes later, Anastasia appears in the doorway, dressed and clean-looking. Her hair is still damp, as always.

"Eat," I offer upon seeing her.

She just stares at me.

"Anastasia," I snap, and she blinks, seeming to come back to the present. I'm excited, but I'm also abruptly anxious. I don't want to be late, and I want her to approve. The best way of finding out whether she's going to like this or not, is just getting around to doing it already.

Shit, why am I so nervous, all of a sudden?

"I'll have some tea," she bargains, "Can I take a croissant for later?"

I stare at her, and she gives me a candy-sweet smile.

"Don't rain on my parade, Anastasia," I warn her.

"I will eat later when my stomach's woken up," she promises, "About seven thirty a.m…. Okay?"

"Okay," I relent.

She appraises me for a moment, and then says, "I want to roll my eyes at you."

"By all means do, and you will make my day."

Her eyes turn up to the ceiling, not quite rolling, but close. I feel my own eyes narrow in response.

"Well, a spanking would wake me up, I suppose," she says quietly, almost musing to herself.

I can't help it—my mouth falls open in absolute shock.

"On the other hand, I don't want you to be all hot and bothered; the climate here is warm enough," she continues, shockingly cavalier.

I very purposefully shut my mouth, try very hard to appear peeved, but I know I'm failing. I'm trying not to laugh. My Anastasia, and that smart mouth of hers.

"You are, as ever, challenging, Miss Steele. Drink your tea."

She sits across from me obediently.

I finish my breakfast and she drinks her weak tea.

Once we're finished, we head out of the hotel room. In the doorway, I toss a sweatshirt at Anastasia, noting that all she wears is that green tank top.

"You'll need this," I tell her.

She just looks at me, confused.

"Trust me," I say, leaning over and kissing her briefly. I take her hand, and we step out of the room. I lock the door behind us, and we head down in the elevator.

Out front, the valet hands me the keys to an Audi A3 Cabriolet. She's beautiful.

Anastasia arches one of her softly feathered brows at me, and I smirk at her.

"You know, sometimes it's great being me."

.

As we zip down the streets of Savannah, Anastasia scrolls through my iPod playlist. I watch her out of the corner of my eye, noting that pucker between her brows as she concentrates.

She decides on a song, and I am surprised when the too-loud techno, club beat bursts through the speakers. Immediately, I'm reaching for the volume knob. It's too early to play this kind of music so loudly.

"_'Toxic'_, eh?" I ask her, recognizing Britney Spears's song at once, grinning at her.

"I don't know what you mean," she says, faking virtue almost to a tee. I don't believe any of it.

I nudge the volume down a couple more notches.

"I didn't put that song on my iPod," I tell her inconspicuously, not really sure why I feel the need to say it, but there it is. I push the pedal down as we merge onto the nearly empty freeway.

Anastasia doesn't say anything, and the song plays on between us. Finally, it ends, and switches to a Damien Rice song.

When I glance over, she's staring out her window, clearly troubled.

"It was Leila," I relent, unable to handle how distraught she looks.

"Leila?" she asks.

"An ex, who put the song on my iPod," I explain.

She tries to hide her stunned expression, but I catch it, even out of my periphery, as I _try_ to focus on the road.

"One of the fifteen?"

"Yes."

"What happened to her?" she inquires.

"We finished," I say simply, thinking back to that day. I shudder internally at the memory. She was so upset, so many tears. I feel awful now, but at the time I felt… Nothing.

"Why?"

"She wanted more," I say.

"And you didn't?"

I shake my head back and forth. "I've never wanted more, until I met you," I tell her honestly, simply.

I hear her draw in a quick breath, a gasp.

"What happened to the other fourteen?" she asks.

"You want a list?" I tease, "Divorced, beheaded, died?"

"You're not Henry VIII."

"Okay," I relent, "In no particularly order, I've only had long-term relationships with four women, apart from Elena."

"Elena?" she questions.

"Mrs. Robinson to you." I smirk. It makes her sound so _old._ I chuckle internally, thinking of her reaction.

"What happened to the four?" Anastasia pushes.

"So inquisitive, so eager for information, Miss Steele," I chide her, but I'm in a good mood, so I'm mostly joking.

"Oh, Mr. When Is Your Period Due?" she retorts.

"Anastasia—a man needs to know these things," I defend myself.

"Does he?"

"I do."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to get you pregnant."

"Neither do I!" she cries, "Well, not for a few years yet."

I'm unexpectedly startled by her question, freezing, and then blinking at the onslaught of panic. It leaves a metallic tinge in my mouth. I force composure quickly, having no idea how she'll take the fact that I would never willingly bring a child into the world. I'll do anything I can to stop it.

"So the other four, what happened?" she asks, continuing on as if she hasn't just witnessed my reaction.

"One met someone else. The other three wanted… more." I use Anastasia's word for it. "I wasn't in the market for more then."

"And the others?"

I glance at her, shaking my head fleetingly. "Just didn't work out."

A moment of quiet falls, and Anastasia is gazing out her window again, in the side mirror. In the rear view, I can see the sun rising. The dawn is chasing us.

"Where are we headed?" she inquires.

"An airfield," I surrender.

"We're not going back to Seattle, are we?" she says, clearly startled.

I can't help but laugh at her sudden terror. "No, Anastasia, we're going to indulge in my second favorite pastime."

"Second?" she asks, her lips turning down at the corners in confusion.

"Yep. I told you my favorite this morning."

She gazes at me, still frowning.

"Indulging in you, Miss Steele. That's got to be top of my list. Any way I can get you."

.

I park and turn off the engine.

"You up for this?" I ask her. She's still processing my revelation.

"You're flying?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Yes, please!" she cries, excited now, with abandon.

I grin at her enthrallment. It unbridles the excitement inside of me and I lean across the console to kiss her.

"Another first, Miss Steele." I pop open my door and climb out of the car, onto the dusty gravel. I round the hood and pull her door open, admiring the view. Not only the gorgeous pearly pink sheen of the sky, but the sight of Anastasia, standing in its radiant glow.

I take her hand in mine and lead her around the building, to the tarmac. Waiting there, as promised, is Taylor.

I watch Anastasia grin at him, and he casts her a polite smile.

"Mr. Grey, this is your tow pilot, Mr. Mark Benson," Taylor introduces us. I take his outstretched hand and we shake firmly.

"How's the wind today?" I ask.

"Pretty ideal, Mr. Grey. Coming from the South East, at about 30 miles per hour. It should be a good flight."

"Perfect. Allow me to introduce you." I turn to Anastasia, who is standing with Taylor. "Anastasia, come," I summon, holding out my hand. She walks quickly to my side.

"Mr. Benson, this is my girlfriend, Anastasia Steele."

"Pleased to meet you," she tells Benson as they shake hands.

He grins at her. "Likewise."

Benson leads us across the tarmac, out onto the runway. As we walk closer to the waiting airplane, the excitement mounts. I'm about to take Anastasia gliding!

"We'll be in a Blanik L-23," Benson informs me as we walk, "which is much better than the L-13, although this is open to debate. I'll be flying the Piper Pawnee. I've been flying tail draggers for about five years now. I can assure you, you and your girlfriend will be in good hands, Mr. Grey."

"Great. That's wonderful to hear, Mr. Benson."

We arrive at the plane, and Benson pops open the glass top for us.

"First we need to strap on your parachute," he says.

"I'll do that," I interject, taking the harness from Benson.

"I'll fetch some ballast," he says easily, and heads over to the plane.

"You like strapping me into things." I don't miss the sarcasm in Anastasia's tone.

"Miss Steele, you have no idea," I murmur. "Here," I say, holding them open, "step into the straps."

She does, and her arm falls on my shoulder. Immediately, I tense, my muscles locking. I don't know if I could move even if I wanted to.

_Chill, Christian. It's just for balance._

Once her feet are situated, I pull the parachute up, and she slips her arms through the shoulder straps. I fasten and tighten everything easily.

"There, you'll do. Do you have your hair tie from yesterday?"

She nods her head. "You want me to put my hair up?"

"Yes." I examine it. It's mostly dried now.

She pulls it up, away from her face, and fastens it with the hair tie.

"In you go," I coach, and she climbs up, making to sit in the back seat.

"No, front," I correct her, "The pilot sits in the back."

"But won't you be able to see?" she asks, as if my information is in jeopardy.

"I'll see plenty," I assure her, grinning.

Without another word, she sinks down into the front seat. I lean over her, buckling her in.

"Hmm, twice in one morning, I am a lucky man." I kiss her quickly. "This won't take long—twenty, thirty minutes at most. Thermals aren't great this time of morning, but it's so breathtaking up there at this hour. I hope you're not nervous."

"Excited," she says, cheerful.

"Good," I say, beaming at her. I caress her face quickly, unable to help myself, and then I strap myself in behind her.

Benson comes over and tugs on Anastasia's straps, making sure she's secure. I bite back my possessive rage at the sight of him so close to her.

"Yep, that's secure," he confirms. "First time?" he asks her.

"Yes," she answers.

"You'll love it," he assures her.

"Thanks, Mr. Benson."

"Call me Mark." He turns to me now. "Okay?"

"Yep. Let's go," I tell him.

Benson shuts the cockpit lid, and heads over to the plane, climbing in.

The Piper's propeller starts to spin, and Mark beings to taxi down the runway.

My heart is pounding in my chest. I am unbelievably excited, and I wish I could see Anastasia's face right now.

The cable tightens between us, and as it reaches its limit, we bolt forward suddenly.

Mark is talking to the tower, and we're picking up speed now. We bump along the runway, and then suddenly, we're flying.

My stomach drops in that familiar way as we take off, the ground dropping away from underneath us.

"Here we go, baby!" I call out excitedly as we rise into the air.

The Piper's engine hums distantly, the wind roaring past us. I note that Anastasia is gripping her seat with both hands; she's holding on so hard that her knuckles are white and I grin at the sight.

The Piper banks to the west, heading inland, over empty fields of purple and green and lovely hues of gold, over dense bushels of dark green forest. Over sparsely spaced homes, and then houses clustered closer together as we fly closer to the Interstate. We cross over the highway.

Above us, the sky gleams, the most gorgeous thing in the world, aside from Anastasia.

Mr. Benson takes us higher, and I open my jaw wider to clear my ears as they pop in response to the altitude gain. I watch as the ground grows smaller and smaller beneath us. We must be getting close now.

The radio crackles.

"We're at three thousand feet," Benson informs us.

"Release," I say into the radio.

Something like helium fills the entire cavity of my body as our line is severed, and then we're floating over Georgia, just us two.

I take hold of the joy stick, and the glider panels and turns to the right as the wing catches the wind and dips. We are spinning toward the sun, around and around, and I am on fire. I am alive with pure sensation, and Anastasia is in it with me.

"Hold on tight!" I scream. I turn the stick, and we slope again, but this time I don't right the plane. We turn head over heels, upside down.

Anastasia screams, a loud, girlish sound, her arms flinging out, hands pressed against the glass of the cockpit, instinctively.

I am howling with laughter, most of it just pure adrenaline. She's loving it! I am so thrilled that she's loving it.

I turn us back over.

"I'm glad I didn't have breakfast!" she calls to me.

"Yes, in hindsight, it's good you didn't, because I'm going to do that again."

I turn us belly up once more, and she giggles loudly. The sound is like music to my ears, and I'm beaming from ear to ear.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" I shout her way.

"Yes," she agrees.

We swoop through the air, a sudden peace falling over me, in the midst of all the chaos and adrenaline.

"See the joystick in front of you?" I shout her way. "Grab hold."

She hesitates.

"Go on, Anastasia," I urge, "Grab it."

When she takes hold, I feel the resistance on my end, and I let go.

"Hold tight… keep it steady," I coach, "See the middle dial in front? Keep the needle dead center."

She does amazingly well, the needle barely veering.

"Good girl," I congratulate her.

"I am amazed you let me take control," she yells.

_Me, too._

"You'd be amazed what I'd let you do, Miss Steele," I shout to her, "Back to me now."

I take hold of the joystick once more, and send us spiraling toward the ground.

"BMA, this is BG N Papa Three Alpha, entering left downwind runway seven to the grass, BMA."

The tower sends their consent.

I take us in a wide circle, slowing us slightly as we get closer and closer to the ground. The airport, the landing strips, the fields, the Interstate, they're all growing clearer, bigger, again.

"Hang on, baby," I warn her, "This can get bumpy."

We circle once more, and then we're on the ground, sailing across a field. My landing is quite smooth, though still bumpy. I keep my jaw clenched as we sail along the ground, still flying over the grass, gradually slow, and then finally come to a halt.

As the plane's equilibrium is redistributed, it wavers slightly, and then pitches to the right, coming to a stand still.

I open my jaw again to clear my ears, unbuckle myself, pop open the cockpit lid, and climb out. I stretch my limbs indulgently, reveling in the after effect of the flight. The high, fuzzy feeling which wraps around me like a quilt.

"How was that?" I ask her, bending over the release her from her restraints.

"That was extraordinary," she barely breathes, "Thank you."

"Was it more?" I inquire, and I'm surprised by my own question. All along, I suppose this was what I was hoping for. Showing her this side of me is more, right?

"Much more," she whispers, her eyes wide and taken, the blue in her irises sparking with excited electricity.

My heart soars at her acknowledgment.

"Come." I hold out my hand and she takes it. I help her out of the cockpit, down on to the grass beside me.

As soon as she's on her feet, I pull her to me tightly. I knot my hand in her hair, pulling her head back so that I have access to her lips, and I kiss her with all that I have.

I am so turned on right now—I can feel my body responding, but this was all I hoped it would be and more. I am on cloud nine right now, on top of the world.

Anastasia responds immediately, her fingers weaving themselves into my own hair.

Finally, I force myself to pull back, gazing down at her. Her skin looks marvelous in the early morning light. Dewy and golden.

"Breakfast," I whisper.

I turn, keeping her hand, and we head back toward the car.

"What about the glider?" Anastasia inquires as I pull her away from it.

"Someone will take care of that," I say. "We'll eat now. Come."

.

"I like that you introduced me to Mark as your girlfriend," Anastasia says when we are just around the corner from IHOP.

"Isn't that what you are?" I ask her, lifting an eyebrow. Honestly, submissive has never suited her, and I'm not sure it ever will.

"Am I?" she asks, "I thought you wanted a submissive."

"So did I, Anastasia, and I do. But I've told you, I want more, too." I feel very vulnerable, saying the words, but they're true, all of them. I'm taken by the intensity of the truth emanating in my words.

"I'm very happy that you want more," she's whispering again.

"We aim to please, Miss Steele," I goad as I pull into the pancake house's parking lot.

"IHOP," she observes, surprised, grinning at me.

"A guilty pleasure of mine," I indulge her, and switch off the ignition.

.

"I would never have pictured you here," Anastasia says as we slip into the booth the hostess has directed us to.

"My dad used to bring us to one of these whenever my mom went away to a medical conference. It was our secret." I smile at her, and then pick up a menu, sweeping my hand absentmindedly through my hair as I read through the selections.

"I know what I want," I murmur, aware my voice sounds very low, as I admire the way she reads over her menu, chewing on that lip.

She peeks up at me, and almost immediately, her face changes, her lips parting.

"I want what you want," she breathes.

I gasp. "Here?"

Very slowly, almost on purpose it seems, she bites down on her lip again.

"Don't bite your lip. Not here, not now. If I can't have you here, don't tempt me."

"Hi," the waitress says as she approaches, making me jump, "I'm Leandra. What can I get for you… er… folks… er, today, this mornin'…?"

I ignore the way the waitress flushes, taking me in, and stare across at Anastasia.

"Anastasia?"

She swallows. "I told you, I want what you want."

Oh shit. Now this is a game. And it's turning me on a hell of a lot more than I thought it would. Underneath the table, my cock stirs in my pants.

The waitress glances back and forth between us.

"Shall I give you folks another minute to decide?" she asks.

"No. We know what we want," I tell her. "We'll have two portions of the original buttermilk pancakes with maple syrup and bacon on the side, two glasses of orange juice, one black coffee with skim milk, and one English breakfast tea, if you have it." I say all of this without even looking at the waitress. My eyes are glued to Anastasia.

"Thank you, sir. Will that be all?" she asks.

At the same time, each of our gazes turns to the waitress. To my surprise, she's bright red. Without another word, she turns and heads back toward the kitchen.

"You know, it's really not fair," Anastasia says.

"What's not fair?" I inquire. I'm lost.

"How you disarm people. Women. Me."

"Do I disarm you?"

She snorts humorlessly. "All the time."

"It's just looks, Anastasia," I brush her off.

"No, Christian," she contradicts me, "It's much more than that."

I feel my eyebrows knit together. "You disarm me totally, Miss Steele. Your innocence. It cuts through all the crap."

"Is that why you've changed your mind?" she inquires.

"Changed my mind?" I'm confused again.

"Yes—about… er… us?"

Deep in thought, I brush my fingers over my chin, while I assemble my thoughts.

Finally, "I don't think I've changed my mind per se. We just need to redefine our parameters, redraw our battle lines, if you will. We can make this work, I'm sure. I want you submissive in my playroom. I will punish you if you digress from the rules. Other than that… well, I think it's all up for discussion. Those are my requirements, Miss Steele. What say you to that?"

"So I get to sleep with you? In your bed?" she asks.

"Is that what you want?"

"Yes."

"I agree then. Besides, I sleep very well when you're in my bed. I had no idea." I still can't get over it. She's like my own personal dream catcher, chasing away all my nightmares.

"I was frightened you'd leave me if I didn't agree to all of it," she admits in a low voice.

"I'm not going anywhere, Anastasia," I vow. "Besides… we're following your advice, your definition: compromise. You e-mailed it to me. And so far, it's working for me." Very surprisingly.

"I love that you want more," she says, and she's shy again.

"I know," I tell her.

"How do you know?"

"Trust me, I just do." I smirk at her.

Our waitress returns then, with our food and drinks. She sets everything down in front of us, and then she's gone.

I watch with insane pleasure as Anastasia devours nearly everything in sight.

"Can I treat you?" she asks me when we're done.

"Treat me how?" I inquire, confused.

"Pay for this meal."

I snort. "I don't think so."

"Please," she begs, "I want to."

My lips turn down in disapproval. "Are you trying to completely emasculate me?"

"This is probably the only place that I'll be able to afford to pay," she reasons.

"Anastasia, I appreciate the thought. I do. But no."

Her lips purse. She's clearly displeased.

"Don't scowl," I warn her.

The waitress returns, as if on cue. I pay, and we leave.

.

"Do you want to come in?" Anastasia asks when I pull up in front of her mother's house. It's very quaint, small, but in desperate need of a paint job.

"I need to work, Anastasia, but I'll be back this evening. What time?"

"Thank you… for the more," she says, and I can hear that she sounds glum. But I really do need to get some work done.

"My pleasure, Anastasia." I kiss her indulgently.

"I'll see you later," she says.

"Try to stop me."

She climbs out, and I pull away from the curb.

I drive all the way back to the hotel in silence, lost in my thoughts about this morning.

More… I seem to be figuring it out, and I couldn't be happier.


	30. Another Author's Note

**Hi everyone. Just wanted to upload a quick update and apologize for my sudden and unexplain hiatus.**

**Our family has suffered a tragic loss this week, so I have been holding my one year old daughter just a little tighter.**

**I'm getting back into the swing of things now, and so there should be an update soon.**

**Again, I'm sorry for this sudden hiatus, but I'll be back soon.**

**.**

**Lots of love to you all!**

**xo**


	31. Chapter 31

_June 2__nd__ 2011 – afternoon_

_._

I have been on the phone and in meetings all day. I've barely had time to think through Anastasia's morning and mine together, aside from my drive back to the hotel.

When I do arrive, I've just stepped into my hotel room, when there is a rapid knock on the door.

I go to answer it. It's Taylor.

"Taylor, what is it?" I ask. He looks concerned.

"Sir, there's been an emergency back home."

"What about?" I inquire, my thoughts immediately straying to my family, or Elena. Has something happened to one of them?

"It's about Leila, sir."

"Leila Williams?"

"Yes, Sir."

It has to be more than coincidence that we were just talking about her this morning. It has to be.

"What's happened?"

"Sounds to me like some sort of psychosis or severe depression, Sir. She's attempted suicide."

_Suicide?!_

Despite my lack of feeling for her, pity wells in my chest for the poor girl. Last I heard, she'd moved on, found someone else—though not after a lengthy wallowing period. She's supposed to be happy, married, and leading a satisfactory life.

I'm already heading back to the bedroom to pack my things.

"Meet me in the lobby in ten, Taylor," I command, my back already turned.

.

In the car, it occurs to me that I'm supposed to be having dinner with Anastasia and her mother tonight.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath when I realize I'm going to have to cancel our plans. I feel a slight, muted tearing sensation in my chest when I realize I'm going to have to leave her without saying goodbye in person.

I press speed dial, but her phone rings six times and then goes to voicemail. She must be busy. I can't bother to leave a message—I want to at least speak with her. A goodbye over voicemail just wouldn't suffice.

Taylor is silent in the driver's seat as he zips down the Interstate, headed back toward Hilton Head. The jet is on standby, waiting for us.

My phone buzzes in my hand and I glance down at the screen. It's her.

"Anastasia," I answer.

"Hi," she mumbles. There's some sort of commotion in the background. She must be out in public somewhere.

"I have to return to Seattle. Something's come up. I am on my way to Hilton Head now. Please apologize to your mother—I can't make dinner."

"Nothing serious, I hope?"

"I have a situation that I have to deal with," I tell her, "I'll see you tomorrow. I'll send Taylor to collect you from the airport if I can't come myself."

"Okay. I hope you sort out your situation. Have a safe flight."

"You too, baby."

I hang up.

.

When we land at the airfield in Seattle and I switch on my phone, I see I have a missed call from Dr. Flynn. Before we left the hotel, I called ahead and made sure Leila would receive the best of care from him. He promised me that he'd do his best.

I call him back as we debark and head toward the waiting car.

"John Flynn," he answers, clearly distracted. He mustn't have checked the caller ID, because usually he greets me by name.

"John, it's Christian," I say. Dr. Flynn is one of the few whom I allow to call me by my first name.

"Christian—" He begins, sounding both relieved, and yet panicked, all bundled into one.

"What is it?"

"There's been a new development," he explains, "Leila has escaped from the psychiatric ward where she was being treated."

"Shit!"

.

_evening_

_._

I have been insanely tense since the moment we've arrived home. My mind has been going a mile a minute, and I can't seem to calm it.

Some irrational part of me wants to fly back to Savannah to be with Anastasia—or more, to bring her home with me; all I want is to have her here with me, so that I can bury myself inside her and just forget.

I'm on the phone with Flynn, and though he tells me there's nothing new, that they haven't caught a trace of her yet, I'm pushing for as much information as I can get.

Across my study, my laptop _dings_, announcing an incoming email.

I go to check it. And it's Anastasia. At least at the top of my list. There's work that needs to be taken care of, a flagged email from Ros, a couple from Elena regarding my missing ex-sub, but it's Anastasia's e-mail that I click on.

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Safe Arrival?

**Date: **June 2 2011 22:32 EST

**To: **Christian Grey

.

Dear Sir,

Please let me know that you have arrived safely. I am starting to worry. Thinking of you.

Your Ana x

…

_Shit. _With all that's being on, it's completely slipped my mind to let Ana know that I've landed and I'm home, safe.

I would be furious if I were in her shoes right now.

I type my reply in haste.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Sorry

**Date: **June 2 2011 19:36

**To: **Anastasia Steele

.

Dear Miss Steele,

I have arrived safely, and please accept my apologies for not letting you know. I don't want to cause you any worry. It's heartwarming to know that you care for me. I am thinking of you, too, and as ever looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

"I'm sorry, Christian," Flynn is saying now, "I would tell you more if I had anymore information—there just isn't a lot to go off right now."

Exasperated, I run a hand through my hair and pace a couple steps away from my desk. "Can you at least tell me if she's at risk?"

"Other than to herself, I don't believe she's a risk to anyone, no," he confirms.

A small frisson of relief runs through me, but it's not enough to assuage the other racing thoughts in my mind.

"Alright," I relent, "Let me know if you hear anything."

"Of course, Christian. Goodbye."

"'Bye for now." I press the 'end' button and slip my Blackberry into my pocket.

My computer _pings_ again, and I turn back to it expectantly. It's Anastasia again.

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **The Situation

**Date: **June 2 2011 22:40 EST

**To: **Christian Grey

.

Dear Mr. Grey,

I think it is very evident that I care for you deeply. How could you doubt that? I hope your "situation" is under control.

Your Ana x

P.S.: Are you going to tell me what I said in my sleep?

…

Immediately, my mind is drifting back to this morning, when I revealed to her that she talked in her sleep. And then, it drifts even further, to last night, as I laid awake for who knows how long, watching her sleep.

And then listening to her talk in her sleep… She asked me not to leave her, and I promised that I wouldn't, but in her unconscious state, she didn't seem satisfied. She also promised that she wouldn't leave me, and the memory of it fills my heart with equal weight and disembodiment—just as the time I heard her say it.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Pleading the Fifth

**Date: **June 2 2011 19:45

**To: **Anastasia Steele

.

Dear Miss Steele,

I like very much that you care for me. The "situation" here is not yet resolved.

With regard to your P.S., the answer is no.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Pleading Insanity

**Date: **June 2 2011 22:48 EST

**To: **Christian Grey

.

I hope it was amusing. But you should know I cannot accept any responsibility for what comes out of my mouth when I am unconscious. In fact—you probably misheard me.

A man of your advanced years is surely a little deaf.

…

_Oh, I am more than certain that I heard you correctly, Miss Steele_.

She said it loud and clear, no mistaking it.

Amusement rises in me, for the first time in what seems like hours, reading her words. I can always count on Anastasia to shift my mood, and it's something I desperately need right now.

Smirking, I type my reply.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Pleading Guilty

**Date: **June 2 2011 19:52

**To: **Anastasia Steele

.

Dear Miss Steele,

Sorry, could you speak up? I can't hear you.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Pleading Insanity Again

**Date: **June 2 2011 22:54 EST

**To: **Christian Grey

.

You are driving me crazy.

…

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **I Hope So…

**Date: **June 2 2011 19:59

**To: **Anastasia Steele

.

Dear Miss Steele,

I intend to do exactly that on Friday evening. Looking forward to it.

;)

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

Someone raps their knuckles on the doorjamb to my study, and I glance up. Gail is standing in the doorway.

"Mr. Grey, dinner is ready and sitting on the breakfast bar. Would you like to eat now, or shall I put it away for later?"

"I'll be right there, Gail. Thank you." I flash her a brief, polite smile, which seems to throw her off. She nods quickly, and disappears.

I return my attention to my inbox.

…

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Grrrrr

**Date: **June 2 2011 23:02 EST

**To: **Christian Grey

.

I am officialy pissed at you.

Good night

Miss A. R. Steele

…

Oh ho ho. Someone's getting all formal with me. And growling at me.

I chuckle quietly to myself and lower my fingers to the keyboard.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Wild Cat

**Date: **June 2 2011 20:05

**To: **Anastasia Steele

.

Are you growling at me, Miss Steele?

I possess a cat of my own for growlers.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

Ha. Let her make of that what she will. If she's done extensive research, she'll know that what I'm referring to is my cat of nine tails. If not, she'll be rather confused right now.

I head out of my study and into the kitchen, where Gail has left me a steaming bowl of seafood linguini. It smells divine. I pour myself a glass of Sancerre to go with it, and sit down to eat.

I finish the food on my plate quickly, surprised by how ravenous I am.

Once I've finished, I sit back and compose one final e-mail to Anastasia on my Blackberry.

…

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **What You Said in Your Sleep

**Date: **June 2 2011 20:20

**To: **Anastasia Steele

.

Anastasia,

I'd rather hear you say the words that you uttered in your sleep when you're conscious, that's why I won't tell you. Go to sleep. You'll need to be rested with what I have in mind for you tomorrow.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

…

.

_Friday, June 3 2011_

_._

After my morning workout and breakfast, I drive myself to the office. I am thankful for the day ahead, and the distraction it will offer.

I have a long conversation with Ros, regarding the Darfur shipment, which is due to be sent out tomorrow.

I talk with Bill about the plot of land in Georgia, which I barely had time to see between my gliding with Anastasia, and the emergency that brought me home.

I meet with the team about the solar powered cell phone.

I fire two people.

I speak with Flynn multiple times, and they still have no idea where Leila is.

The situation is infuriating, and quite frankly, panicking. To think that I could somehow be responsible for this is sickening. I just want to find her and have her well again.

For some reason I can't fathom, this is all too familiar, in a ghostly sort of way.

It makes me think of the crack whore. What I would have done, had I not been a young, feeble child, to help her. To get her the help she needed… I shake my head to dispel the thoughts.

I resent this woman. She chose prostitution and drugs—especially drugs—over the life of her own son. I could have—I stop myself, and pick up the stack of papers off my desk, flipping through a few, trying to distract myself.

My day is almost done.

My Blackberry buzzes on the edge of the desk and I pick it up without checking caller ID.

"Grey."

"Mr. Grey, Taylor here," he addresses me.

"Yes."

"I'm just heading out now to collect Miss Steele from the airport," he informs me.

"Fine," I murmur, glancing out my office window. The skies are clear. It will be a smooth drive back to Escala. I took the R8 this morning, knowing Taylor wouldn't have enough time to drive me home and then head to the airport in time to meet Anastasia.

An array of emotions knots my insides when I realize how close I am to seeing her again. Relief, anxiety, and a need so potent it slows my pulse and drags my blood lazily through my veins.

Though it's only been a day without her, it feels like an eternity—especially with what's going on—and I am desperate to see her again, to be with her, to have her in my arms, and in my playroom.

.

I step into the apartment half expecting Taylor and Anastasia to have already arrived. They haven't—the apartment is empty; Mrs. Jones is nowhere to be seen. Before I can head into my bedroom to shower and change, I need to call Flynn.

"John Flynn," he answers on the second ring.

"John," I greet him, "Any news?" I pace over to the wall of windows at the end of the great room.

"I'm sorry, Christian, there's nothing. No trace."

"No trace…" I repeat, "Okay."

"I'll keep you updated, but I'm not going to call if nothing's changed."

"Yes," I agree, and though I see the logic in his words, I know I'll call him again in a few hours.

Suddenly, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. When I turn to process it, I see Ana standing there. Her hair is pulled back, away from her face, and she's wearing a short skirt, which makes her legs look amazing.

Immediately, every ounce of tension inside me releases, and _oh_—I want her. I need to have her. Now.

"Keep me informed," I say to Flynn, suddenly aware that he's still on the line. Without waiting for his answer, I end the call and stride toward where Anastasia stands across the room, staring at me. The expression in her eyes calls back to me, straight to the marrow in my bones.

I don't think I've ever wanted her so much. This past day has been hell without her, and I think I'm only beginning to realize that now. I need to feel every inch of her, to know she's here with me, to know that we're both safe and well. She answers to something deep inside me that I'm only beginning to become aware of. She calms me, she stills the storm inside me.

On my way past the couch, I remove my jacket and tie, slinging them over the back of the piece of furniture. Then I'm in front of her, and before I even touch her I can feel the warmth coming off her skin, and I can smell that sweet, delicious scent of hers.

I crush her to my chest, aware I'm being a little abrupt, but I don't care. The absolutely dire intensity for her is all I can think about in this moment. I need to have her. I don't care what else is going on around us, I just need her in this moment.

I grip the end of her ponytail in my fist, tilting her head back, and I crush my lips to hers. At first, she doesn't quite respond—a little taken aback by my eagerness, I suppose. But as I pull the hair tie out, she kisses me back, her fingers weaving their way into my hair, I bite back my groan.

_Oh, fuck, that feels good._

After another passionate moment, I break our kiss, so I can pull back and stare down at her. She stares up at me with piercing, wondrous blue eyes.

"What's wrong?" she whispers.

"I'm so glad you're back," I explain, though my words nowhere near offer any justice for my feelings, "Shower with me—now." It's not a request.

"Yes," she acquiesces. I grip her hand in mine, her skin soft and smooth against my palm, and lead her into my bathroom.

I turn the water in the shower on, and turn to stare at her again, drinking in every inch of her exposed skin, the shape of her body through her outfit. Those long, luscious legs…

"I like your skirt. It's very short. You have great legs."

I remove my socks and shoes, never taking my eyes off hers, afraid that if I look away, she'll disappear. I'm trying not to think too hard about the overwhelming need I have for this woman. I've never felt this connected to someone—ever, in my entire life. Truthfully, it scares the shit out of me, but what scares me more is imagining life without her.

She keeps her eyes on mine, wide, as she slips her feet out of the plain, flat black shoes she wears.

I can't restrain myself any longer. I lunge for her, pressing her against the wall. I litter a menagerie of kisses along any part of her skin I can find—her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, her jaw, her mouth, her throat. I rake my fingers through her hair, feeling the warmth of it, releasing her scent into the air between us.

Desperate to be closer, I press my body against hers, trapping her between my chest and the tile wall behind her.

I barely feel her hands on my upper arms—surprised I'm not panicking at her touch.

A low groan escapes from deep in my throat. "I want you now. Here… fast, hard." Each word is a burst of breath from my chest. I am so, so hard. Harder than I've been in a long time, and I'm going to burst if I don't fuck her now. Not only from sexual frustration, but from all the other emotions which are pent up inside me, filling my chest like an over-full helium balloon. I'm going to explode.

I push her skirt up her thighs—the skin feels like silk against my palms.

"Are you still bleeding?" I ask her.

"No," she answers, and blushes.

"Good."

I push her skirt up around her waist, hook my thumbs into the simple, innocent white cotton panties she wears—only Anastasia could make them look so insanely sexy—and I pull them down as I kneel in front of her. I want to taste her—it's been too long.

Gripping her hips, I push them against the wall, holding her in place, and I lean in to kiss her. Oh, she smells so sweet… And tastes divine.

I move my hands to her thighs, pushing them apart so I have more access to her. Then I lean in again, circling my tongue firmly around her clitoris—which is already swollen, and she's already soaked. She groans loudly at my touch, her fingers knotting themselves in my hair.

It's not long before I feel her body begin to quiver, and I know she's getting close. Though I would like to do this until she falls apart, I'm feeling selfish, and I want to feel her come on my cock.

I stop, stand, and grip her face in my hands. I push my tongue in her mouth, forcing her to taste herself on my tongue. In the same instant, I unzip my fly, freeing my aching erection.

I lift her, lining our bodies up.

"Wrap your legs around me, baby."

She snakes those long legs around my waist, her arms around my neck, and I thrust myself inside her. I sink deliciously into that wet, warm tightness, and I'm home. I've been home for more than 24 hours, but _this, _this is where I feel safe and unguarded and totally at ease.

Quickly, my control shatters, and I'm plunging into her again, and again, faster and faster. This is where I need to be, right here.

She lets go just in time, her muscles spasming around me, triggering my own release. A feral, unrestrained growl releases from my throat as I pour myself inside her. I shove my face into her neck, groaning loudly. The bliss is so overwhelming, all powerful, and completely sating.

_Thank you, Anastasia._

I'm still panting as I kiss her. She stares, almost blindly, at me for a moment. But then her disorientation seems to clear, and as it does, I set her carefully on her feet.

"You seem pleased to see me," she says softly, smiling shyly.

The room is steamy and hot now—I don't know if it's from our fucking, or if it's from the heat of the water in the shower.

"Yes, Miss Steele, I think my pleasure is pretty self-evident. Come—let me get you in the shower."

I strip quickly, and start on Anastasia's blouse. She stands tamely before me, and I can feel her watching me as I release each button.

"How was your journey?" I ask, mostly because it's just something to talk about. I know she was in good hands—again.

"Fine, thank you. Thanks once again for first class. It really is a much nicer way to travel." She grins at me. "I have some news." There's apprehension in her voice.

What is it?

"Oh?" I say, slipping the last button through the button hole. I pull her shirt off her shoulders and discard it on the floor, on top of my own clothing.

"I have a job," she announces.

I freeze, an array of emotions coursing through me at so fast a speed I can't settle on one. Finally, I decide that I need to be happy for her—it is the most appropriate response.

I smile at her. "Congratulations, Miss Steele. Now will you tell me where?"

"You don't know?" she asks.

I shake my head, feeling my lips turn down. "Why would I know?"

"With your stalking capabilities, I thought you might have…" Her words come to a halt, and I have a feeling it's because the expression on my face is changing.

I'm wounded by her assumption. Does she really think I would infringe on her personal life, just like that, just because I want to?

"Anastasia, I wouldn't dream of interfering in your career, unless you ask me to, of course." _And if it was required for her safety._

"So you have no idea which company?" she confirms.

"No. I know there are four publishing companies in Seattle—so I am assuming it's one of them."

"SIP," she tells me.

"Oh, the small one, good. Well done," I tell her, and plant a kiss on her forehead. "Clever girl. When do you start?"

"Monday."

"That soon, eh? I'd better take advantage of you while I still can." I try to ignore the heavy emotion blooming in my gut. Something like dread. She'll be busy come Monday. She'll no longer be available to my every beck and call. I'm worried I won't see her as much. "Turn around."

She does. I unclip her bra and unzip her skirt, removing both, revealing that perfect body of hers. That _ass._

I can't resist taking it in my hands, and kissing her shoulder, admiring that fine, flawless, porcelain skin of hers.

"You intoxicate me, Miss Steele, and you calm me. Such a heady combination." I kiss her hair, inhaling deeply as I do so, and then I pull her into the shower, under the downpour of water.

"Ow!" she shrieks.

I grin at her. "It's only a little hot water," I tease her.

After a moment, she seems to adjust to the heat. What can I say? I like my showers hot.

"Turn around," I tell her, and she turns her back to me immediately. "I want to wash you," I nearly whisper, reaching for the soap on the shelf, squeezing a little into my palm.

"I have something else to tell you," she says as I begin to massage the soap into her shoulders, releasing the fragrance of it into the air.

"Oh yes?" I try to suppress the apprehension I feel rising again. She sounds even more nervous than when she announced her new job a couple minutes ago.

I feel, with my hands on her, rather than hear, her take in a breath.

"My _friend_ Jose's photography show is opening Thursday in Portland," she announces, stressing the word 'friend'.

I can't help but freeze. That _fucker_. After what he tried to pull on her, how can she possibly still consider him a friend? The thought despises me.

"Yes, what about it?" I ask, trying, and failing, to keep the anger out of my tone.

"I said I would go. Do you want to come with me?"

I suppress a huff at the way she's asked. Topping from the bottom again. She hasn't asked me permission, and so I can't forbid her to go, which angers the hell out of me.

But then, I remind myself, I need to respect her wishes. Compromise is what she's after, in the end. And this would be the perfect way to show it.

When I've regained some composure, I begin to wash her again. Running my hands over her body helps to bring reason and peace back.

"What time?" I finally feel I can ask.

"The opening is at seven thirty p.m."

I duck in to kiss her ear. "Okay."

As long as I'm there, it should be fine. And besides, I want to do things that she enjoys doing as well. I want to learn everything I can about her. This seems like a good place to start. If things are going to work between us, I know I'm going to need to start respecting _some_ of her wishes. It doesn't stop me from wanting all of her, all of the time, but she's done so well adjusting to my lifestyle—I have to give her credit, and now it's my turn to try and adjust to hers.

I feel her relax.

"Were you nervous about asking me?" I ask her.

"Yes," she admits, "How can you tell?"

"Anastasia, your whole body's just relaxed."

"Well, you seem to be, um… on the jealous side," she says defensively.

"Yes, I am," I agree menacingly, "And you'd do well to remember that. But thank you for asking. We'll take _Charlie Tango_."

"Can I wash you?" she asks me now.

"I don't think so," I tell her, and kiss her neck to soften the blow. I know she doesn't understand why I won't let her touch me. None of the other submissives did either. The only difference here, is that I wish I could let her touch me. I want it with all of my might, but… I just can't let her.

I move from her front to her back.

"Will you ever let me touch you?" she asks after a moment, and I'm surprised by the strength of bravado in her question.

"Put your hands on the wall, Anastasia," I order, "I'm going to take you again."

I grip her hips, bending her forward, and I sink steadily but slowly into her, finding bliss once again.

.

**I want to thank everyone so much for your support on my last post. It means so much, and numerous tears have been brought to my eyes, knowing that you all understand. **

**I'm taking things day by day, still giving myself time to grieve, but I also know that I can't let it take over my life. I have a daughter I need to take care of, a house that needs up-keeping, a husband who needs a present wife. That keeps the depression (which has haunted me for years) from rearing again through this horrible time.**

**I know that everything happens for a reason, however. I have great faith in the fact that God has a plan for my life, and that he did this for a reason. **

**The worst thing about it, is that it is so common for a lot of people. It's an awful thing to go through, but many people go through it.**

**Thank you immensely for your patience on this chapter.**

**I truly appreciate you all so much.**

**3**

**xo**


	32. Chapter 32

I have left Anastasia waiting in the playroom for fifteen minutes.

I have so much in mind for this evening, so much that I want to do. I will spend all night in here with her.

In my bedroom, I dress in my playroom jeans, gather my iPod, and head upstairs.

Anastasia is waiting by the door, in perfect submissive position, just as I've taught her. She looks amazing, appetizing, delectable, but I don't allow myself to dwell on the sight of her just yet.

I move past her, over to the chest, setting my iPod on top of it. I leave it there, and stroll toward the bed, casual, blasé, taking my sweet time. _Yes, this is where I will set her up_. I go back over to the chest and open various drawers, taking out and placing on top, what I'll need: a blindfold, the transmitter, fur glove, etc, etc.

When I'm finished and prepared, I turn and walk over to her, admiring every inch of that delectable flesh, her body, her downward cast eyes, her long dark hair, falling in waves around her slim shoulders.

"You look lovely," I whisper, unable to speak any louder than that, for fear of my voice cracking. What this woman does to me—she makes me come undone.

She doesn't look up at me, but I do see her cheeks color with blush, and it makes me smirk. I lean over, cupping her chin, and I lift her face so that I can stare into this gorgeous, depthless, piercing blue eyes.

"You are one beautiful woman, Anastasia," I tell her, "And you're all mine. Stand up."

She wobbles a bit as she rises, eyes still cast down, and usually, I wouldn't care, but with Anastasia, I need to see those eyes. It's just something I crave when I'm with her, and I can't explain it. I never wanted this with anyone else, but it's as if there's nothing there, no connection, when I can't look into Anastasia's eyes.

"Look at me." She lifts her eyes to mine, and they're wide and blue and full of fascination, anticipation, and poorly hidden lust. It's sexy as hell, and just the expression in her eyes makes me harden in my pants.

I feel a smile stretch my lips, involuntarily, as I think about what I'm going to do to her.

"We don't have a signed contract, Anastasia. But we've discussed limits. And I want to reiterate we have safewords, okay?"

_I'm going to stretch you to your limits, baby. And I can't wait._

Anastasia only stares at me, looking a little clueless.

"What are they?" I demand. This is important. She needs to know these.

Her lips turn down slightly.

"What are the safewords, Anastasia?" I ask her, purposely slowing my words down, trying to communicate that this is the most important piece of information she could know here, in my playroom. If she can't express the safewords, there are so many breeches I could overrun.

"Yellow," she finally tells me.

"And?"

"Red," she whispers.

"Remember those."

Her right eyebrow arches, just so, and I know she's about to say something witty, and it is immediately imperative for me to stop her in her tracks. I am in charge here, I am the Dom and she is the submissive.

"Don't start with your smart mouth in here, Miss Steele," I snap, "Or I will fuck it with you on your knees. Do you understand?"

I watch her swallow and blink a couple times in quick succession, and I know I've put her in her place.

"Well?" I push.

"Yes, Sir."

"Good girl," I praise her, and then I stare at her for a moment. She appears to be a little more apprehensive than before. Her shoulders are tighter, and she stands a little more rigidly. I feel the need to reassure her that I won't be hurting her. "My intention is not that you should use the safeword because you're in pain. What I intend to do to you will be intense. Very intense, and you have to guide me. Do you understand?"

She doesn't respond, only gazes at me, wordless. What I would give to know what she's thinking.

"This is about touch, Anastasia," I continue, "You will not be able to see me or hear me. But you'll be able to feel me."

Her lips turn down into a frown again. I ignore it for now and turn toward the chest. I wave my hand in front of the iPod dock, and the doors split open. I set everything up, calibrating it with the room, and when I turn to face her again, I'm aware that I'm grinning again.

This is going to be fun. And hot.

"I am going to tie you to that bed, Anastasia," I tell her, "But I'm going to blindfold you first and you will not be able to hear me. All you will hear is the music I am going to play for you."

I've wanted to do a scene to this music for a very long time.

"Come." I offer her my hand, and when she takes it, I pull her over to the bed. "Stand here." I order, turning her so that she is facing the bed. I watch her take in the restraints at each post.

"Wait here. Keep your eyes on the bed. Picture yourself lying here bound and totally at my mercy," I whisper in her ear.

I leave her there for a moment, heading over to the rack where I keep my 'whips and chains', selecting a flogger and the fur glove off the top of the chest. When I reach her once more, she's still staring at the bed. I slip the flogger into my back pocket and the glove onto the bench by the bed, and reach for her hair, pulling it back over her shoulders, gathering it together.

I braid it easily and fasten it with a hair tie I always keep handy.

"While I like your pigtails, Anastasia, I am impatient to have you right now. So one will have to do."

Softly, I pull her woven hair so that she's forced to step back, coming flush against my chest. I guide her head to the side, and it gives me admission to her throat. I lick and nip at the skin from behind her ear, all the way down to her shoulder. She is so gorgeous, and her skin tastes amazing.

Softly, she whimpers.

"Hush now," I whisper against her now damp skin. I pull the flogger from my back pocket and hold it out in front of us, so that she can see it.

"Touch it," I urge her when she stares at it. She reaches out cautiously, her fingers skimming the suede strands, fingering the small clear beads at the end, and the sight of it nearly makes me groan. God, I want her.

"I will use this," I tell her, "It will not hurt, but it will bring your blood to the surface of your skin and make you very sensitive… What are the safewords, Anastasia?"

"Um… yellow and red, Sir," she whispers haltingly, nervously, in anticipation?

"Good girl. Remember, most of your fear is in your mind," I assure her.

I release the flogger, which bounces and settles on the mattress, and nearly on their own accord, my hands drift down her body, settling on that tiny waist of hers. She really is perfect.

"You won't be needing these," I say softly, hooking my fingers into the waistband of her panties—which I'm pleased to see are a pair I had purchased for her—and pull them down to her ankles, swiftly. She steps out of them, a little wobbly.

"Stand still," I tell her, unable to resist kissing her behind. Ugh, that gorgeous behind of hers. So perfect and round and tight. I bite it softly, twice, and I feel her muscles clench in response. "Now lie down. Face up," I tell her, smacking her once on the ass.

She jumps, but does as I've asked, quickly. She stares up at me, and the expression in her eyes nearly makes me combust. She is looking at me with so much trust, so much dependence…

"Hands above your head," I tell her, and she lifts them.

Before I shackle her, I head back over to the chest by the door, to gather the iPod and the blindfold. I lower myself to sit on the bed beside her, and I show her the iPod.

She frowns, clearly confused by its modifications—the antenna sticking out of it mostly.

"This transmits what's playing on the iPod to the system in the room," I explain. "I can hear what you're hearing, and I have a remote control unit for it." I show her the remote and then lean over her, to slip the ear buds in her ears. I leave the iPod about a foot above her head.

"Lift your head."

She does, so quickly it springs off the mattress. She's catching on, doing as I bid immediately and efficiently.

I slip the eye mask over her head, and over her eyes. I'm forced to bite back a groan at the sight of her, completely vulnerable to my will.

I stand and restrain first her wrists, and then her ankles, my touch lingering on her skin after each limb is locked in place. Each time it elicits a shiver in her.

When I'm done, I stand back to admire my handiwork, and the masterpiece that is Anastasia Steele.

_Fuck me._

I select the song I'm looking for and press 'play'.

I pick up the glove, putting it on, and guide it down her neck, over her chest, across her breasts. Her nipples pucker immediately as the tool passes over them. I take it down underneath her breasts, over the curve of her waist, circling her perfect navel. I trail it from hip to hip, admiring the way they curve. Across the line of pubic hair, down between her legs, along each inner thigh, over the knee, the calf, the foot, and then the opposite way over the other leg.

The music is beautiful, heavenly, and I wish I knew what she thought of it. That investigation will have to come.

I take my hand back up over her waist, across her breasts. She's breathing heavily now, panting, _feeling_ me, and the site is so erotic.

I remove the glove and pick up the flogger, admiring the porcelain pall of her skin. Which will soon not be so porcelain, but rather very pink. My cock stirs just at the thought of it.

I take the flogger over the same pattern, in the same rhythm, following the timing of the music, basking in it. I can feel myself slipping into a familiar configuration, letting the sensations wash over me, letting myself be the person I am in this room. I'm almost not thinking anymore, lost in a trance-like state.

I lift the flogger, and bring it sharply down over her belly.

She cries out, her body straining slightly, against the feel of it. I hit her again, harder this time.

"Aahh!" she cries out again.

She writhes underneath the tingle of the beads, and I watch the warm pink flush begin to creep its way across her flat stomach.

_Oh fucking yes._

I bring the flogger down across her breasts, her nipples hardening further at the assault, and she arches her back once more. Her breasts color, and I hit her across the hip, and pick up the pace of the cracks across her pubic hair, the tops of her thighs, her inner thighs, then back up across her hips and belly and breasts.

I'm almost unaware of my actions at this point, lost in the blazing color of her skin and the sweet serenade of the music around us.

The song repeats itself before I realize it, and when it ends, I abandon the flogger. I need to touch her now.

I climb onto the bed, leaning over her, hard and tense and so unbelievably turned on.

I lower my lips to her throat, warm and flushed with blood, leaving kisses in my wake, making my way down, over her clavicles, her chest, to her breasts, taking each nipple into my mouth, sucking and circling the tip of my tongue around each one.

She is so vocal, her groaning and moaning louder than I think she realizes, and I can tell that she lost in me, and the realization makes me glow.

I kiss down her body, pausing at her belly button to circle it, and then I move lower still, my head between her legs. I take in a big noseful of her scent, musky and sexy, and then I flatten my tongue to her, where she is already restrained and completely vulnerable to me.

_She is so sweet._

She moans loudly as I circle my tongue around her clit, slippery with her arousal. Her legs already begin to quiver, a clear sign that she's getting close to orgasming, and I stop.

I sit up to kneel between her legs, releasing her left ankle from the cuff at the bedpost. Her leg relaxes in the middle of the bed, against me, soft and silken and warm. I release the other leg, and briefly I massage them, rubbing blood flow and vitality back into them.

Then I'm lifting her so that only her shoulders are resting on the mattress, kneeling up, and I slam myself into her.

_Fuuckk…_ She feels so, so good. I can't get over it. Every time we're together, it's like the first time, and that sounds insanely cheesy, but it's the only way I can describe it.

I begin to thrust in and out of her, watching myself exit and reenter her, slick with her wetness, and already she begins to quiver again.

_Fuck._ I force myself to stop, backing her slowly away from the brink. This is all part of my plan. To push her to her very limits.

"Please!" she cries.

_Fuck, I want to._ But this hasn't been part of my plan. I feel my grip on her grow tighter, and very slowly, I begin to move again. In, out, in, out, watching her face, the way her lips are parted, her chin jutted in the air by the way her head is tilted back.

Rhythmically, my pace increases, following the crescendo of the music, faster and faster, exactly in sync with it.

"Please," she implores me again, and I lower her back onto the mattress, resting my hands by her, angling myself just so, so that I can reach that sweet spot inside of her, continuing to move, focused solely on the beat of the music, how it builds with the sensation in my gut, as if every muscle is coming together, weaving slowly, clenching tightly, the pressure building, the fire intensifying…

She comes, screaming out her pleasure, all feeling I know, and it takes only three more thrusts for me to follow her into bliss.

I collapse on top of her, breathing hard, nearly unconscious from the intensity of it all.

_Wow,_ is all I can think, _Fucking wow._

When I gather the strength, I pull out of her, stretching out beside her to free her wrists. She groans softly as I do so, and I reach for her face mask, pulling it away so that I can see her eyes. I remove the ear buds, watching her blink in the scant light of the room, watching her come back to me.

"Hi."

"Hi, yourself," she whispers, flushing softly, bashful.

I can't help but smile at her. How she still manages to appear so naïve, so innocent, after all the things I've introduced to her. It's one of the things I adore about her. I lower my lips to hers, kissing her delicately.

"Well done you," I congratulate her in a whisper. "Turn over."

Trepidation floods her eyes.

"I'm just going to rub your shoulders," I assure her, though I could definitely go for another round. Just give me a few minutes.

"Oh," she says, "Okay."

With a great amount of effort, she rolls away from me, onto her stomach. Her back has crease marks from the mattress, and I kneel over her, a knee at each hip. I grind my fingers into the muscles of her shoulders and back, hoping to relieve some of the tension there.

I can't help but lean down to kiss the back of her head. I am so proud of her. She did so well. As always, she's exceeding all of my expectations.

"What was that music?" she mumbles. It takes me a minute to piece together the words she's said, almost illogical.

"It's called _Spem in Alium_, a forty-part motet by Thomas Tallis," I explain.

"It was… overwhelming," she says, and she sounds awed.

My heart swells in appreciation. I love that she loves the music I love.

"I've always wanted to fuck to it," I tell her.

"Not another first, Mr. Grey?"

"Indeed, Miss Steele."

There's a pause, and she moans as I work the muscles in her shoulders. It feels good to make her feel good.

"Well, it's the first time I've fucked to it, too," she says, and she sounds half asleep.

"Hmm… you and I, we're giving each other many firsts," I muse aloud.

"What did I say to you in my sleep, Chris—er, Sir?" she quickly corrects herself.

I freeze for a moment, gauging what I should say to her. She's not going to drop it until I tell her something. I tell her the things I'm okay with her hearing second-hand, but I want to hear the one part of what she said out loud, to me.

"You said lots of things, Anastasia. You talked about cages and strawberries… that you wanted more… and that you missed me."

"Is that all?" she asks, sounding fifty shades of relieved. All of a sudden, it occurs to me that she may be nervous about what she's said. Did she not mean it? Does she regret it, possibly?

I stop my massage short and clamber off of her, stretching out on my side so that I can see her. I'm aware that I'm frowning now, captivated.

"What did you think you'd said?" I demand.

"That I thought you were ugly, conceited, and that you were hopeless in bed," she says, and I know it's a joke—she's avoiding telling me the truth.

The realization makes me frown further.

"Well, naturally, I am all those things," I try to joke, "And now you've got me really intrigued. What are you hiding from me, Miss Steele?"

Her lashes flutter. "I'm not hiding anything."

It's clearly a lie.

"Anastasia, you are a hopeless liar," I call her out.

"I thought you were going to make me giggle after sex; this isn't doing it for me."

I can't help my smirk. "I can't tell jokes."

"Mr. Grey!" she exclaims, "Something you can't do?" Her grin is infectious, and I can't help but mirror it.

"No, hopeless joke teller."

She giggles, and the sound is magical.

"I'm a hopeless joke teller, too," she admits.

"That is such a lovely sound," I murmur, and I press my lips to hers another time, just because I want to.

"And you are hiding something, Anastasia. I may have to torture it out of you."

She narrows her eyes at me, and I think she's about to say something else, but her huge yawn interrupts her.

I sit up and pull on my jeans. "Come. Let's get you to bed."

I retrieve the gray waffle robe from the back of the door, return to the bed where she still lounges, and wrap it around her.

"Can you walk or do I need to carry you?"

She glares at me. "I can walk," she insists.

I take her hand and we head downstairs together, to my bedroom.

.

_Saturday, June 4__th__ – 4:30am_

I wake much too early. It's only four thirty. I'm tangled like a vine around Anastasia, and it's lovely to be near her like this again. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed her.

I rarely dream when I sleep with Anastasia, but eyes have haunted me tonight, and they weren't Anastasia's.

As I make a trip to the washroom, and then step out into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water, I find myself thinking of Leila. Outside it's raining, and I wonder if she's caught outside in it.

I drink my water, shaking my head to myself.

Leila isn't, and shouldn't be, my concern any longer. She stopped being my submissive long ago, and I need to leave it up to Dr. Flynn to take care of matters. But I just want to know that she's okay. That's all I want to know.

I retreat to my piano, leaving the lid shut, hoping I don't disturb Anastasia, and lose myself in the music…

.

I've just finished a Mozart piece and have begun a Chopin composition, when I notice Anastasia, standing in the fringes of light, swathed in her bathrobe. She's watching me, smiling softly.

I frown at the sight of her, and then drop my gaze to my hands again, continuing to play.

"You should be sleeping," I chasten her, but I can't make my scolding sound severe. I'm not all that upset to see her awake.

"So should you," she snaps back.

I glance up at her, unable to hold back my smile at her sass. That smart mouth.

"Are you scolding me, Miss Steele?"

"Yes, Mr. Grey, I am."

"Well, I can't sleep," I tell her, suddenly angry. Damn Leila and just the thought of her, lost and insane, waking me in the night.

She sits beside me now, leaning her head on my bare shoulder, which I try not to flinch at. I'm only distracted for a moment, but then I continue to play until the piece is finished.

"What was that?" she inquires when I'm done.

"Chopin. Prelude opus twenty-eight, number four. In E minor, if you're interested."

"I'm always interested in what you do," she says. Something in her voice melts me.

I turn to press my lips to her hair. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," she insists, "Play the other one," she's suddenly imploring.

"Other one?" I ask, baffled.

"The Bach piece that you played the first night I stayed," she urges.

"Oh, the Marcello," I suddenly recall.

I begin to play, and the music surrounds us, wrapping us in her dark, depthless wings.

When it finally ends, she asks, "Why do you only play such sad music?"

The question takes me by surprise, and as she sits up to look at me, I can only shrug. I don't want to say anything. I don't want her to see through me, but I'm afraid it's already too late.

"So you were just six when you started to play?" she asks.

I nod, growing increasingly wary by the second. I don't like where this is going, not at all. After a thoughtful moment, I throw caution to the wind.

"I threw myself into learning the piano to please my new mother."

"To fit into the perfect family?" she prompts.

"Yes, so to speak," I admit, and then change the subject, trying to get her off my trail. I don't want to talk about this anymore. "Why are you awake? Don't you need to recover from yesterday's exertions?"

"It's eight in the morning for me. And I need to take my pill."

Surprise lifts my eyebrows. "Well remembered," I praise her, "Only you would start a course of time-specific birth control pills in a different time zone. Perhaps you should wait half an hour and then another half hour tomorrow morning. So eventually you can take them at a reasonable time." _And get some much needed sleep._

"Good plan," she agrees in a whisper, "So what shall we do for half an hour?" I think she means for the question to sound innocent, but I hear the double meaning behind it.

"I can think of a few things," I say, grinning at her wickedly.

"On the other hand, we could talk," she says.

_Talk_? My brow creases at the sudden shift in direction. But I thought we were going to fuck…?

"I prefer what I have in mind," I insist, pulling her into my lap.

"You'd always rather have sex than talk," she says, laughing as she regains her balance by gripping my biceps.

"True. Especially with you," I admit, and begin leaving a trail of kisses along her skin, behind her ear and down her throat. "Maybe on my piano," I suggest in a whisper.

"I want to get something straight," she whispers shakily.

I pause for just a second before continuing, trailing kisses up the other side of her throat.

"Always so eager for information, Miss Steele," I murmur, "What needs straightening out?" I'm at the base of her neck now.

"Us," she breathes.

"Hmm. What about us?" I push the material of her bathrobe over her shoulder, leaving kisses along the porcelain span of her shoulder.

"The contract."

I give in, lifting my head to gaze at her. Relenting, I sigh. I lift my hand, trailing my fingertips over the blush I've left across her cheek.

"Well, I think the contract is moot, don't you?" I ask.

"Moot?" she asks.

"Moot," I confirm, smiling.

Clearly, she's appalled. "But you were so keen," she insists.

"Well, that was before. Anyway, the Rules aren't moot, they still stand." I want to make sure she knows that, and I feel my expression harden.

"Before?" she pushes, "Before what?"

"Before…" I pause, suddenly bereft, lost. "More," I conclude, shrugging.

"Oh," she says.

"Besides, we've been in the playroom twice now, and you haven't run screaming for the hills," I point out.

"Do you expect me to?" she asks.

"Nothing you do is expected, Anastasia," I tell her, sarcasm evident in my tone.

"So, let me be clear. You just want me to follow the Rules element of the contract all the time but not the rest of the contract?"

"Except in the playroom," I confirm. "I want you to follow the spirit of the contract in the playroom, and yes, I want you to follow the Rules—all the time. Then I know you'll be safe, and I'll be able to have you anytime I wish."

"And if I break one of the Rules?" she asks.

"Then I'll punish you."

"But won't you need my permission?" she urges.

"Yes, I will," I concede, suddenly not sure I want this conversation to continue.

"And if I say no?" she asks.

I stare at her, confused. "If you say no, you'll say no. I'll have to find a way to persuade you."

Suddenly, she's pulling away from me and standing. I'm left sitting on the piano bench, cold. I frown at her, confused by her reaction. Is she upset?

"So the punishment aspect remains," she assumes out loud.

"Yes, but only if you break the Rules." Something is churning in my gut, a great anxiety I'm not sure I can deal with. Is this a great standoff, the last hurrah, our goodbye? Has she finally had enough of all of my fucked-upness?

"I'll need to reread them," Anastasia says now.

"I'll fetch them for you," I offer. I stand and head into my study, pulling the rules up on my computer and printing off another copy. I try to quell the raging emotions swirling inside me. Why has this got me so panicked? Why am I so afraid that she's going to leave?

When the page is printed, I pull a pen out of my drawer and read through quickly, crossing off a few things that have become disputable.

_The Submissive will ensure she achieves a minimum of __eight__ seven hours' sleep a night when she is not with the Dominant._

_The Submissive will eat regularly to maintain her health and wellbeing from a prescribed list of foods (Appendix 4). The Submissive will not snack between meals, with the exception of fruit._

_The Dominant shall provide the Submissive with a personal trainer __four__ three times a week in hour-long sessions at times to be mutually agreed upon by the personal trainer and the Submissive._

When I get back, the kitchen lights are on, and the kettle is simmering on the stove. Anastasia is standing at the breakfast bar, rummaging through her purse. As she swallows the little pink birth control pill, I slide onto one of the barstools in front of her.

"Here you go," I tell her, pushing the Rules toward her.

She reads through them quickly.

"So the obedience thing still stands?" she asks.

"Oh yes," I say, grinning.

She shakes her head, and I think it's in amusement, but then she rolls her eyes.

"Did you just roll your eyes at me, Anastasia?" I whisper, suddenly breathless with lust.

"Possibly, depends on what your reaction is," she replies.

"Same as always," I say, shaking my head.

I watch her swallow, but there's excitement in her eyes too.

"So…"

"Yes?" I urge, running my tongue over my lower lip, which is suddenly dry.

"You want to spank me now."

"Yes. And I will."

"Oh, really, Mr. Grey?" she challenges, suddenly bold, grinning at me.

"Are you going to stop me?"

"You're going to have to catch me first."

_Oh?_

Suddenly I'm giddy. This could be fun. I rise slowly to my feet, eyes on her the entire time.

"Oh, really, Miss Steele?"

Her teeth close over her lower lip.

"And you're biting your lip," I point out, trying to keep it subtle as I shift incrementally to my left. In response, she moves to her left.

"You wouldn't," she goads, "After all, you roll your eyes."

We continue to move. I'm just trying to get around the breakfast bar to her.

"Yes," I say, "but you've just raised the bar on the excitement stakes with this game." I am crazy with expectation, my insides humming to a simmer.

"I'm quite fast, you know," she warns me.

"So am I," I tell her. "Are you going to come quietly?"

"Do I ever?" she teases, finding double meaning in my words.

"Miss Steele, what do you mean?" I joke, smirking. "It will be worse for you if I have to come and get you," I threaten.

"That's only if you catch me, Christian," she says, "And right now, I have no intention of letting you catch me."

"Anastasia, you may fall and hurt yourself. Which will put you in direct contravention of rule number seven, now six."

"I have been in danger since I met you, Mr. Grey, rules or no rules."

"Yes, you have," I agree, and I pretend that her words have sobered me, creasing my brow.

Hoping to have thrown her off, I grab for her, and she screams, jumping out of my reach and racing across the room, to the dining room table, putting it between us.

My heart is in my throat, adrenaline pounding through my bloodstream, waking every nerve ending in my body. Hey, this is fun.

I stalk purposefully toward her, and with each step I take, she takes another away from me.

"You certainly know how to distract a man, Anastasia," I tell her, hoping to distract her with my words.

"We aim to please, Mr. Grey," she says, "Distract you from what?"

"Life. The universe."

"You did seem very preoccupied as you were playing," she notes.

I was, thinking of Leila. Damned Leila.

Suddenly, I really am sober, and I fold my arms over my chest.

"We can do this all day, baby, but I will get you, and it will just be worse for you when I do."

"No, you won't," she says, bold again.

"Anyone would think you didn't want me to catch you," I say, trying not to let the anxiety show through, but now I'm wary. Does she not want me to spank her?

"I don't," she says, "That's the point. I feel about punishment the way you feel about my touching you."

All of the blood drains from my face at her words.

"That's how you feel?" I can only whisper. I'm a fucking moron. I am so fucked up. How could I ever let myself do that to her?

"No," she finally says, and relief courses through me, "It doesn't affect me quite as much as that, but it gives you an idea," she says, murmurs, she's ashamed now.

"Oh," is all I can say. I think I'm numb with respite. I don't know what I'd do with myself if she felt that way about being punished. That kind of fear, that sort of panic… Fucking _hell._

She comes to stand in front of me.

"You hate it that much?" I ask her.

"Well… no," she says. "No. I feel ambivalent about it. I don't like it, but I don't hate it."

"But last night, in the playroom, you…" I scramble for clarity, for proof, for something to hold on to…

"I do it for you, Christian, because you need it. I don't," she says. "You didn't hurt me last night. That was in a different context, and I can rationalize that internally, and I trust you. But when you want to punish me, I worry that you'll hurt me."

_Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck._

"I want to hurt you," I admit, "But not beyond anything that you couldn't take," I try to reassure her when I see the panic in her gaze.

"Why?" she begs.

I run a hand through my hair, and I shrug, because I don't know what to say. How could I even begin to tell her? That deep, deep down, it's because—no. I can't tell her.

"I just need it," I falter. _Tell her. NO. _ I can't. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. She would never forgive me if she knew. I would never see her again. "I can't tell you."

"Can't or won't?" she demands.

"Won't," I admit.

"So you know why."

"Yes."

"But you won't tell me," she says.

"If I do, you will run screaming from this room, and you'll never want to return. I can't risk that, Anastasia." I stare at her intently, imploringly. Please, stop. How did it come to this?

"You want me to stay," she says.

"More than you know. I couldn't bear to lose you," I tell her sincerely.

_Please don't leave me,_ everything inside me screams, and suddenly I need to touch her, I need her, I need her, I need her.

I pull her to me, nearly crushing her to my chest, and I'm kissing her. There is a strange disconnect between my body and my mind, almost as if I'm watching myself from a corner of the room, as I smash my mouth to hers, overtaking her quickly, kissing her with every ounce of passion I have in me.

"Don't leave me," I beg her, "You said you wouldn't leave me, and you begged me not to leave you, in your sleep," I admit against her lips. I pray with everything in me that this will help her stay.

"I don't want to go," she says. Her words are like a balm to my wound, soothing and cooling, and relieving in a way that is impossible to describe. "Show me."

"Show you?" I ask.

"Show me how much it can hurt," she says, a temptress, leading me into the fire, deeper than I ever wanted to go.

"What?"

"Punish me. I want to know how bad it can get," she says.

I am baffled by her request, and I step back, out of her arms, trying to process it all.

"You would try?" I ask.

"Yes," she says, "I said I would."

I blink at her. "Ana, you're so confusing."

"I'm confused, too," she admits, "I'm trying to work this out. And you and I will know, once and for all, if I can do this. If I can handle this, then maybe you—" Her words come to an abrupt halt, but I know what she means. I know she thinks that if she lets me do this to her, that I'll let her touch me.

Automatic fear grips every inch, every part of me.

_Nonono,_ I'm thinking, but suddenly, it hits me. Resolve. Decision. I'll give her my worst, and if she can take it, then yes, I'll let her touch me.

Before I can think too much about it, I grip her arm and haul her upstairs to the playroom.

"I'll show you how bad it can be, and you can make your own mind up," I say, pausing for a moment outside the door. "Are you ready for this?"

She nods, and there is a steely sort of determination in her eyes. She's not going to back out. I barely notice the fact that she's so pale, she's gray.

I pull open the door and without letting her go, grab a belt from the rack by the door. I pull her over the whipping bench, in the farthest corner of the room.

_Give her your worst, you fucked up son of a bitch._

_ Show her how bad it can be, you fucked up son of a bitch._

_ You son of a bitch, you fucking fucked up son of a bitch._

_ Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. _

"Bend over the bench," I hear myself murmur, but the rest of me is somewhere else, somewhere other. I'm barely aware of any feeling in my body, of the space around me.

_Give her your worst, you fucked up son of a bitch._

_ Show her how bad it can be, you fucked up son of a bitch._

_ You son of a bitch, you fucking fucked up son of a bitch._

_ Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. _

"We're here because you said yes, Anastasia. And you ran from me. I am going to hit you six times, and you will count with me."

_Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch._

"I am doing this so that you remember not to run from me, and as exciting as it is, I never want you to run from me."

_Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch._

"And you rolled your eyes at me. You know how I feel about that."

All at once, I'm hyper aware of everything around me. Of the room, and it's lemony wood polish smell, of the dim lighting, of the site of Anastasia kneeling in front of me, her back bare, that perfect, flawless skin.

_Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch._

The belt comes down before I'm ready, a gratifyingly loud _SNAP_.

_Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch._

The demons' voices in my head drown out her cry.

"Count, Anastasia!" I shout.

"One!" she screams back at me.

I bring the belt down again.

_Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch._

"Six," she whispers, and the world comes back to me, roaring into focus. I hadn't realized I'd been unaware this entire time. I see the belt marks across her skin, the irritation across her backside, the way her skin is raw and red, too red.

_What the fuck have I done?_

Instinctively, I'm reaching for her, pulling her up into my arms, close to me. I can't breathe, and I hug her to me. But she took it so well, she did so well—

"Let go…" she's struggling now, pushing away from me, "No… Don't touch me!" There is so much venom in her voice it shocks me, as she finally breaks from my hold.

I stand staring at her, completely baffled, as she wipes angry tears from her eyes, which are already overflowing again.

"This is what you really like?" she demands, her voice like acid, "Me, like this?" She wipes her running nose with the sleeve of her bathrobe.

I've done something seriously wrong. I've fucked up big time, and all I can do is stare at her. Like a fucking lunatic. Not saying a word.

"Well, you are one fucked up son of a bitch," she spits at me.

"Ana," I gasp, pleadingly, lost, at sea.

"Don't you dare 'Ana' me! You need to sort your shit out, Grey!"

She turns, rigid, obviously in pain, storming from the room, the door slamming behind her.


	33. Chapter 33

_Saturday, June 4__th__ – 5:29am._

For a long while, it's just me and the hum of the lights.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck. I've really fucked up now. I am such a fucking moron._

I vascilate between complete numbness, and bouts of insane panic, for I don't know how long. Finally, I decide that I should go and find her. Talking, communicating, is the only thing that will remedy this—if there is any remedying. I have no idea what will happen from here on out. I've really fucked up. I've hurt her, and she's so, so angry with me.

But she's right.

I _am _a fucked up son-of-a-bitch.

I _do_ need to sort my shit out.

But this is the only thing I know, and I've taken it too far, and now I've hurt the one woman I promised myself I would never hurt. I am so, so empty inside. I don't know what to do with myself.

When I've gathered my wits, finally, I exit the playroom. I think I heard her slam the sub room door, but before going to her, I head downstairs to gather some Advil, a glass of water, and the arnica cream from my bathroom.

Hands full, I head back up the stairs and down to the end of the hall. I pause for a monumental moment at her door, contemplating. I decide not to knock, ignoring the fact that she'd probably send me away if I asked for permission. As I click the door open, I see her shape, in the new light of morning—dim and shadowed—on the mattress, under the duvet. She is sobbing into her pillow, and the sound shatters my heart in pieces.

I set the supplies on her bedside table and climb in behind her, careful not to brush her sore behind.

"Hush," I whisper to her, pulling her to me. She is so still, and so rigid. "Don't fight me, Ana, please," I beg her. I bury my nose in her hair, kissing her neck. For a moment, I revel in this act of worship. I may never be able to do it again. I've really fucked up. Is she going to leave me now?

"Don't hate me," I breathe, realizing that her leaving is maybe not the worst thing that could happen to me—but if she comes to hate me, that will be the end. I am a worthless, worthless man if I've caused this marvelous woman to hate me. I don't know what I'll do if she hates me.

I am so, so remorseful. I've never felt this much regret in my entire life. It burns and aches and grinds my bones all at the same time. The pain of my betrayal to her is too much to handle.

I keep leaving small, tentative kisses on her skin, but she remains stiff and still, not responding to me at all. I cradle her in my arms for the longest time, knowing this is the only thing I can do for now, but more importantly never wanting to let her go. For, when I let her go, she may leave and never come back. So I hold her to me tightly, wishing and praying and hoping.

Eventually, her sobs quiet, and she relaxes, her muscles calming from their tensed state. The light in the room grows incrementally brighter, bathing us in its softness.

I don't know how long we lay there—hours maybe.

"I brought you some Advil and some arnica cream," I finally tell her. My voice cracks from disuse.

She turns, every movement miniscule and purposeful, and finally, I can see her face, as she lies on her back, her head on my arm. She stares into my face, and I stare back into those depthless blue eyes, desperate to know what she's thinking, what is running through her mind.

I don't want to show her too much, I don't want her to see how broken I am over all of this.

After a long time, her eyes soften, and her hand moves. Automatically, I flinch, thinking she's going to touch my chest, but her fingers are on my face, running stiffly over my stubble. I close my eyes. Her touch is so soft, and I just lay there, feeling all of it, reveling it and holding on to it. _I'm so sorry._

"I'm sorry," she breathes, and my eyes pop open.

_What? What the hell is she sorry for?_

"What for?"

"What I said," she explains. Her voice is throaty and husky in the early morning, after the crying, and after such a long stretch of quiet.

"You didn't tell me anything I didn't know," I tell her, and I am so glad she's not angry with me. At least, for now. It wasn't the first thing out of her mouth. "I am sorry I hurt you," I tell her.

Her shoulders rise and fall, a shrug. "I asked for it," she justifies. Suddenly, she looks emotional, and she swallows hard. "I don't think I can be everything you want me to be," she confesses, and a dark, dark, enormous pit opens up in my belly. No. No. No, no.

"You are everything I want you to be," I somehow say through the clawing obscurity, which is suffocating me. The panic and the fear are crowding in, and I force myself to focus through them, to listen to her next words.

"I don't understand," she says, "I'm not obedient, and you can be as sure as hell I'm not going to let you do _that_ to me again. And that's what you need, you said so."

She's right, as always. I close my eyes against the onslaught of emotion, a revolutionary war opening up inside me. On the one hand, I could try to give it up, the punishment, but I know that I can't do it. It's who I am, it's what I need. It's a part of me. But I don't know how we'll continue forward now. She's just told me she will never let me do that again, and though I will never do _that_ to her, _ever_ again, I will still feel the need to punish her. I know. And so, I know that this is it. This is the end. This is where we will part ways.

I open my eyes, hoping they don't convey the emotions stirring inside me, boiling my blood, knotting my intestines with my stomach, my stomach with my lungs, my lungs with my heart. Everything is jumbling up inside me, the worst kind of pain imaginable, but on my face, I need her not to see that. I force composure, hoping it's convincing.

"You're right," I murmur, "I should let you go. I am no good for you."

"I don't want to go," she whispers, and I watch tears rise in her eyes.

"I don't want you to go, either," I confess, and some of the emotion leaks through, into my voice. I sound too vulnerable, like exposed bone after a really bad break. I reach up to catch a falling tear off her cheek. "I've come alive since I met you," I admit to her, because for some reason, this seems like the perfect time to tell her. I run my fingers over her face, tracing her bottom lip with my thumb, memorizing her expression, knowing I may never see her again.

"Me, too," she breathes, "I've fallen in love with you, Christian."

The world stops turning, and that darkness, undiluted now, crowds in, blocking everything else out, and I can't hide from her—not anymore.

"No," I say, and I sound like I'm not breathing. Maybe I'm not. "You can't love me, Ana. No… that's wrong."

"Wrong?" she asks, "Why's it wrong?"

"Well, look at you," I demand, "I can't make you happy." The confession crushes me.

"But you do make me happy," she insists, her lips turning down into a frown.

"Not at the moment, not doing what I do."

_And I can't not do what I do._

"We'll never get past that, will we?" she realizes aloud.

_No. No, we won't._

I can only shake my head.

Her eyes close, and desperation yawns inside me. _No, please. I need to see your eyes._

"Well… I'd better go, then," she finally says, and sits up. I watch her flinch as she does so.

"No," I panic, "Don't go." _No, no, no. Don't leave me. Don't leave me!_

"There's no point in me staying," she insists, and she sounds resigned, exhausted even. She climbs out of bed, and numbly, my body follows hers. I can't feel my feet, where they must be planted on the floor.

"I'm going to get dressed. I'd like some privacy."

She leaves me standing in the bedroom, my mind racing.

_No. No, please. Don't leave me. Don't leave me, don't leave me. Don't leave me. I can't do this alone, I can't, I can't do it. Not without you here. You're everything to me. I can't do it without you._

Numbly, I turn, walking out of the room, down the hall and down the stairs. When I reach the bottom, my Blackberry buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to answer it. It's Welch.

I greet him, and my voice sounds empty.

He doesn't seem to notice.

A couple of days ago, I put him on duty to find Leila's husband, who was totally vacant at the time of her admission and subsequent escape. He tells me that Leila had left him, and that he had essentially abandoned her. That he hadn't had interest in her for awhile.

"Does he know where she is?" I demand.

"He finally admitted that he did, Sir. He'd been saying for two days straight that he had no clue, but he's finally confessed that he knows where she might be, but he'll only tell for a price."

_That fucker._

"He said what?" I roar. What a fucking cad. To know that your wife is in serious mental trouble, at risk for her life, and to know where she might be, but—to want money? In order to tell someone where she is? I can't fucking believe it. This man is the scummiest of the scummy.

"Well, he could have told us the fucking truth. What's his number?" I demand, "I need to call him… Welch, this is a real fuckup." I glance up and find Ana standing in the great room, dressed in jeans—which must hurt like hell—and her hair is pulled back into a bun. Her skin looks sallow and pale, and she has bags under her eyes, swollen from crying. She looks awful, and I feel like someone's just punched me in the gut, knowing that this is what I've done to her. "Find her," I snap at Welch.

Ana walks over to the couch, where her backpack lays abandoned. She pulls the Mac out and sets it on the breakfast bar in the kitchen, as well as her Blackberry and the car key to the A3.

Oh, no you don't. Don't you even fucking try this.

No, no. This is really happening, and horror lances through me. She's giving everything back, and she's really leaving.

She turns to me.

"I need the money that Taylor got for my Beetle." She sounds utterly numb.

"Ana, I don't want those things; they're yours," I insist. "Take them."

"No, Christian. I only accepted them under sufferance—and I don't want them anymore."

"Ana, be reasonable."

"I don't want anything that will remind me of you. I just need the money that Taylor got for my car."

I can't help but gasp out loud. She doesn't want anything that will remind her of me? She really wants to cut me out of her life forever?

"Are you really trying to wound me?"

"No. I'm not. I'm trying to protect myself," she says, and this is something I can understand, but still I hear myself insisting.

"Please, Ana, take that stuff." What will I do with it all? It's hers. The least I could do is leave her with a few good resources. What will she do without a car?

"Christian, I don't want to fight—I just need the money," she urges.

She's really not going to back down, and I narrow my eyes at her. She stares back, incomprehensible.

"Will you take a check?" I finally relent.

"Yes. I think you're good for it."

I would smirk, but this is no time for humor. I turn and go into my study, heading over to my desk. I pull open the top drawer and take out my check book. I call Taylor and ask him what he got for the car. When he tells me the number, I write out the check, and slip it in an envelope. I tell him Ana will need a ride home.

When I return, Ana is staring around the great room, expressionless.

I hand the envelope to her.

"Taylor got a good price," I tell her, "It's a classic car. You can ask him. He'll take you home." I nod over her shoulder, where Taylor stands in the doorway. Something in my eyes is foreboding, and deeply saddened. I ignore him.

"That's fine. I can get myself home, thank you," she says.

Rage rips through me. I can barely control it. She doesn't have a fucking car! What the fuck is she going to do?! Fucking walk home?

"Are you going to defy me at every turn?"

"Why change a habit of a lifetime?" She shrugs.

To keep from yelling, I clench my jaw and squeeze my eyes shut, raking my hands through my hair.

"Please, Ana, let Taylor take you home." My voice is even, controlled, and I'm surprised at myself.

"I'll get the car, Miss Steele," Taylor says, and I nod at him. He disappears through the door.

When she turns to find him, he's already gone. Her eyes are on me again, and something in them makes me want to hold her, just one last time. To kiss her, to feel those lips on mine, to smell her scent.

I take a step forward, and instantly, she's stepping backward, away from me. I stop, pierced through by her reaction.

"I don't want you to go," I beg her.

"I can't stay," she says, "I know what I want and you can't give it to me, and I can't give you what you need."

I find myself stepping forward again, and her hands come up, palms out in front of her.

"Don't please," she implores. "I can't do this."

_I can't, either. Don't you understand, Ana? I can't do this without you._

She grips the handle of her suitcase, and her slings her backpack over her shoulder. She heads for the door and I follow her, careful to keep a few feet of space between us. I press the elevator button for her and she steps inside, turning to face me.

Immediately, I'm reminded of the first time we met, when she came to interview me, and my heart breaks at the memory. There was so much potential that day, and none of this bullshit which lies like a minefield between us now.

"Good-bye, Christian."

"Ana—goodbye."

.

The shower has run cold, but I can't move. I am curled in a ball on the floor of the shower, and I've run dry of tears.

I don't know when the last time I cried was, but it's been a long time.

Every muscle in my body aches. It takes a great amount of effort to turn the taps off and wrap myself in a towel. When I step out of the shower and catch sight of my reflection in the mirror, I almost don't recognize myself.

I am a man in agony. It looks as if I'm being burned alive.

_I can't do this_, I keep thinking, _I can't. _

When I'm dressed and back in my bedroom, I see the box on my pillow, noticing it for the first time. How long has that been there?

I cross to it, and find a note on top, from Ana.

_This reminded me of a happy time._

_ Thank you._

_ Ana._

I stare at the box for a long time, and resolve comes.

I pull out my Blackberry and call Taylor.

"Mr. Grey," he greets me, and something in his tone is careful.

"Taylor, I need some glider modeling glue, and a display case."

.

**So sorry for such a short chapter for the conclusion of the first book, but I felt that this was the perfect place to stop.**

**I will be continuing with the rest of the books in the same fic, but please give it time. **

**I've dedicated a lot of time to this interpretation, and now I'm going to take a little bit to regroup.**

**This has been an amazing journey, and I want to thank everyone so much for all of your support and all of your reviews and all of your love.**

**It is so, so much appreciated.**

**See you all soon!**

**xo**


	34. Start of Fifty Shades Darker

_._

**Hello, lovelies! I am so excited to be back! **

**I apologize for taking SOOO long to update you all, but I****'ve gotten back into my groove, and I am ready to continue Christian's story with Ana!**

**So, without futher ado, here we go!**

**.**

**Monday, June 6****th**** 2011**

**.**

"Good morning, Mr. Gr-ey..." Andrea trails off when she gets a good hard look at me as I head past the front desk, toward my office. I see her blink spasmodically, blatant shock on her face.

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. "Coffee," I snap instead.

_Yes, Andrea. I'm aware I look like utter shit. I got a total of maybe five hours' sleep this entire weekend._

After Ana left me, the nightmares came flaring back with a vengeance unlike ever before. They didn't seem to haunt me only in my subconsciousness either. I was haunted all day every day, and there's a hunger in my belly, deep and clawing, a desire to have her back. A desire stronger than nearly every other desire I've ever had. I've never wanted a woman back so much as I do Ana. I've never wanted a woman back, period.

I am sleep deprived and exhausted in all ways possible. The last thing I want to be doing is going to work on a Monday morning, but fuck it, I'm here now, and the distraction will be good for me.

Andrea brings me my coffee as I'm flipping through the paperwork on my desk.

"Can I read you your itinerary for the week, Sir?" she asks after a quiet, awkward moment. I glance up at her, where she stands at the end of my desk, coffee tray in front of her, hands clasped in front of her. She tries to hide the concern in her expression, but it's thinly veiled and I narrow my eyes at the sight of it.

Revulsion overtakes me. I don't want my staff worried about me. I'm not worth their time for one, and for another, it's none of their fucking business.

"Yes, Andrea."

She runs through meetings and fundraiser dates over the next week or two, I'm not really listening.

"And then, I'm not sure exactly what this one is about, but it's for this Thursday, the ninth. It just says 'Portland - photographer'."

"Shit," I mutter under my breath. I've completely forgotten about the damn photographer's exhibition I'm supposed to go to with Ana until now. Animosity-toward the photographer-and enthralled excitement at the fact that I may get to see Ana again fill me with a buzzing life form I haven't felt for the past two days.

Up until now, I'm been the walking burning man, consumed by fire and fear and memories of my birth mother's abusive pimp, her death, and of Ana. She has frequented my dreams moreso. I can't get her out of my head. Those eyes, that body... And though the dreams bring on a cacophony of shame, regret, and something else that cracks my sternum in half, I'm grateful for them. Because I'm seeing her. My Ana. Possibly.

I realize that if I'm going to stand an incremental chance of seeing her on Thursday, I'm going to need to do some damage control.

"Should I cancel?" Andrea asks now, tentative, finger hovering over the screen of the iPad I hadn't seen her bring in.

"No," I blurt, too urgent.

_Chill the fuck out, Grey._

"Find me the best florist in Seattle, please."

"We usually order from Adelaide's. Would you like me to call them for you?"

"No, bring me their number, please. I'll do it myself."

"Yes, Sir."

She leaves, and I pick up the coffee cup and take a sip.

.

Ten minutes later, Andrea returns with a note card. She has the florist shop's name and number scrawled in neat block print.

"Just leave it on the desk," I mutter, distracted by the email I'm reading.

.

**From:** Ros Bailey

**Subject: **SIP Proposal and Land Plot Stats

**To: **Christian Grey

**Date: **June 6 2011 7:39

Christian,

I received your thoughts on purchasing SIP yesterday evening. I apologize it took me so long to respond...

This kind of came out of nowhere. Are you sure about this? I've done some research and their finances aren't in great shape, neither is the management. And a lot of overhaul needed. We'd definitely have our work cut out for us...

Also, I have some stats on the land plots. Savannah and Detroit both have their advantages, but when it comes down to it, I think we'd be better to go with Detroit.

Do you have time to meet this morning?

Ros Bailey

VP, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

.

I can't deny the fact that my heart sinks a bit at her consensus on the land plot. It sounds like we'll be moving ahead with Detroit, and not Savannah. Damn.

On the same token, she doesn't sound too keen on my decision to invest in SIP. Now more than ever, I want to keep an eye on Ana. I want her safe and within easy access... A small voice in the back of my mind reprimands me; tells me that she's none of my concern any longer, that she's left me and that's that.

But the more stubborn, frontal voice in my mind is adamant that I am going to win her back, that Thursday will be my second chance, my do-over. I will make Ana mine again if it kills me, and part of that means buying out SIP.

.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Re: SIP Proposal and Land Plot Stats

**To: **Ros Bailey

**Date: **June 6 2011 7:43

Yes, I'm 100% about SIP.

Let's talk about Detroit. Drop by my office when you get the chance.

Christian Grey  
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

.

Once my email is sent off, I pick up the phone and dial the florist's number Andrea has left me.

"Adelaide's florist shop, Adelaide speaking."

"I need a bouquet of two dozen long-stemmed white roses."

"Certainly, that's no problem, Sir. Can I get a name?"

"Christian Grey."

"C-Christian Gr-rey?" she stammers and I can almost feel the heat on her cheeks searing through the phone lines. I roll my eyes at her obvious discomfort. "And who will you be sending these to?"

"Miss Anastasia Steele." I relay her new address. Welch can be pretty useful.

"Would you like to send a note?"

"Yes." I think it over for a moment. I want to make it personal, but not too intimate. "Congratulations on your first day at work. I hope it went well." I pause, and remember the glider, which, between pacing, brewing, stewing and nightmares, I built over the weekend at my desk. I add, "And thank you for the glider. That was very thoughtful. It has pride of place on my desk. Christian."

There's quiet and key clacking on the other end while she types it down. At the same moment, there's a knock on my door and Ros peeks her head through. I usher her in silently, ignoring how her eyebrows shoot a mile high on her forehead when she sees me.

"Will that be all?" the woman finally asks from the other end, her voice a little faint.

"Yes."

I've barely put the phone back in its cradle when Ros, who has taken a seat in one of the chairs opposite my desk says, "You look like shit, Christian."

This time I indulge in an eye roll.

"Honestly. You look like a walking zombie. Your suit's all askew."

I glance down, seeing that my right lapel is tucked in on itself. I sigh in exasperation and right it. I try to push aside the anticipation bubbling up inside me and focus on the meeting at hand.

I wonder what Ana's reaction to the flowers will be?

.

_Ana and I are in bed at the Heathman. I'm reveling in that just-fucked blissful state, running my fingers over the supple softness of her hip, which arches from beneath the crisp white sheets. Her breasts are on full display, the alabaster perfection of her skin glowing in the dim lamp light..._

_For an over-permissive moment I allow myself to rake my eyes up her body, every inch of perfection it is. It's better than I remembered._

_When my eyes get to her face, those blue eyes are burning into mine, on fire, depthless and the color of the sky. _

"_Ana..." I whisper, at a loss for words as I lift a hand to her face, tracing my thumb over her lower lip. The lush pink skin gives under my touch._

"_Christian," she murmurs back, her voice chiming like church bells, my saving grace, my everything. She blinks softly, her lashes fluttering against her cheekbones. She raises her hand to run her fingers through my hair. I close my eyes at the feeling. "Christian, I love you."_

_There is no fear in this moment, only perfect bliss._

"_Ana, I..." I open my eyes to find hers. She stares back at me, completely open, vulnerable, imploring. "I love you too, Ana."_

_._

**Wednesday, June 8****th**

**.**

Another day, another dollar. That's how the saying goes, isn't it?

I'm sitting at my desk after yet another sleepless night. The dream came to me relatively quickly after I feel asleep, and when it woke me at two in the morning, I couldn't find sleep until five again. I was kept up by the context of my subconsciousness, but moreso the feelings that the dream stirred in me. Which, I suppose, is a good thing. At least, Dr. Flynn would say so.

_Pay attention to those feelings, Christian,_ he would urge me.

I told Ana I loved her, and though it was only a dream, the significance of it is baffling to me. Do I love her? Do I really want to reciprocate those feelings, the proclamation she made to me only four days ago? How was that only four days ago? My life has seemed to change so much over the past few days.

It seems as if the entire universe has shifted on its axis, and I'm left spinning wildly out of control, like an astronaut, untethered, drifting through space without gravity.

I know the only way I'm going to begin to find my center again, is if Ana is there with me.

.

I drag myself through most of the day, throwing myself into my work, forcing myself to focus on the tasks at hand. One thing after another, left foot, right foot.

By noon I've heard nothing from Ana about the flowers. Did she even receive them? Did she receive them and decide to ignore me, pretend it didn't happen? Could she be moving on with her life, her new job? Has she met someone?

I groan, pressing my palms to my face and rubbing my eyes. If I only I could stop thinking. It's making my head hurt. Or maybe it's the lack of sleep and too much caffeine.

My phone rings on the desk, and for an instant I think, _Ana_!

I shake my head at myself and pick up.

"Mr. Grey, your car is here to take you to your lunch meeting with Mr. Kavanagh."

"Thank you, Andrea. I'll be right out."

.

When I return to the office, grateful for the distraction I received at the hand of Mr. Kavanagh and his business proposals, the first thing I do is check my email. I skim through my inbox, but I've received nothing from Anastasia.

I glance at the clock. It's just past two now. She would have had to received the flowers by now, and if I am going to accompany her to the photographer's exhibit tomorrow, we're going to need to make driving arrangements. I don't assume she's purchased herself a new car yet, as my check hasn't been deposited. How is she getting to work?

I draw up a new email, enter her new email address, and then just sit there like an idiot, staring at the screen, heart pounding. It's as if I'm preparing to send a _"Do you like me? Yes or No"_ elementary school note down the line.

I take a breath and lower my hands to the keys.

.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Tomorrow

**Date: **June 8 2011 14:05

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Dear Anastasia,

Forgive this intrusion at work. I hope that it's going well. Did you get my flowers?

I note that tomorrow is the gallery opening for your friend's show, and I'm sure you've not had time to purchase a car, and it's a long drive. I would be more than happy to take you-should you wish.

Let me know.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

.

I pause for just a second, and hit send.

I recline back in my chair, raking my hands through my hair and puff air out of my cheeks. There it is. All or nothing. I've put myself out there, now I just hope she responds.

Two minutes pass, another and another, and when fifteen minutes have passed, and I've just sat there through them, I decide to push the email aside and get back to my work, trying to ignore the black hole opening in my chest.

So she's done with me. So she doesn't want to see me again. I'll just have to figure out a way to find balance again.

At the thought, grief crashes over my head like a tsunami and drowns me.

Who the hell am I kidding? I am nothing without Anastasia. I am the shell of a man, a sadist, _one fucked up son-of-a-bitch._ I don't know how I'm going to do it, but I'm going to need to force myself to find some sense of normalcy again. But whatever was normalcy in my life before Anastasia? A procession of subs, business proposals, boring galas and fundraisers... My life was nothing before Ana Steele stepped into it. She's changed me, I realize. More than I've known.

_Ping!_

Shock, pure and undiluted, lances through me. It's Ana! She's replied!

I open the email, half expecting to find an animistic fuck-off response. Instead, I find something else.

.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Tomorrow

**Date: **June 8 2011 14:25

**To: **Christian Grey

Hi Christian

Thank you for the flowers, they are lovely.

Yes, I would appreciate a lift.

Thank you.

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP

.

Exaltation floods through me. She said yes!

Suddenly, I'm a man on a mountain.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Tomorrow

**Date: **June 8 2011 14:27

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Dear Anastasia

What time shall I pick you up?

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Tomorrow

**Date: **June 8 2011 14:32

**To: **Christian Grey

Jose's show starts at 7:30. What time would you suggest?

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP

.

Each response from Ana brings more and more settlement back into me, and I am quickly becoming more and more at ease. Not only by the fact that she is responding to me, but she's being amicable, and better yet, docile and allowing me to take the lead. This is familiar and good. Maybe not all hope is lost.

I do some quick calculating.

**.**

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Tomorrow

**Date: **June 8 2011 14:34

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Dear Anastasia

Portland is some distance away. I shall pick you up at 5:45.

I look forward to seeing you.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Tomorrow

**Date: **June 8 2011 14:38

**To: **Christian Grey

See you then.

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP

.

_See you then._

My spirits are soaring, and I coast through the rest of my workday.

That night at dinner, I eat like a horse. Gail stands on the other side of the kitchen island, watching me with a combination of fascination and pleasure.

"I see you're feeling better," she comments as she serves me up a second helping of her turkey pot pie.

I take a sip of wine. "I am. I'm seeing Anastasia tomorrow."

She visibly brightens as she puts the plate in front of me. "That's wonderful. I'm glad you're feeling better, Sir." She smiles softly at me, eyes crinkling at the corners. "You were starting to worry me."

.

_We are gliding across the sound in __**The Grace**__. Ana stands in front of me at the wheel. I have my arms around her waist, chin on her shoulder, inhaling nosefuls of her delicious, sweet scent. Freesia and sandalwood and soap. Her long hair whips my cheek, and salt water from the ocean sprays around us._

_It is a perfect day, not a cloud in sight, and the sun beats its rays on us. Ana's skin is warm. She relaxes into me, hands still on the wheel. I squeeze her closer._

_She turns to look at me, those eyes so deep, so blue, and so full of so many emotions._

"_I love you, Christian."_

_I brush my lips against hers._

"_I love you too, Anastasia."_

.

**Thursday, June 9****th**** 2011**

**.**

I don't know if it's my alarm or if it's the dream that has woken me, but I open my eyes in the early morning light of the next day. It's the longest and the deepest I've slept since Saturday. I feel rested.

For the first time, I have the energy to go on my morning run.

I pull on a pair of running shorts and a black t-shirt.

I grab my iPod and headphones and head down onto the street.

The morning is quiet and crisp for early June. There's a headiness about it. I stand for a moment, taking it all in. Color is beginning to leech its way back into my life again. I hadn't noticed until now just how drab and colorless these last few days have been. It's almost as if I've been resurrected, and tonight? Tonight I'll be reunited with Anastasia, my saving grace.

With Coldplay blasting in my ears, I make my way down the sidewalk, bursting with energy.


	35. Chapter 35

**Thursday June 9****th**** 2011**

**.**

"Ready to head to the office in five, Mr. Grey?" Taylor asks as I'm finishing up breakfast.

I drain the vestiges of my coffee cup.

"Actually no."

Inspiration hit me on my way back from my run this morning. I may not be able to express the depth of my emotions to Ana verbally, but music has always held a special, expressive place in my heart. And I think her, too, so music might be a perfect way of communicating with her.

"We're going to the Apple store," I say in response to Taylor's puzzled expression.

.

The rest of the workday swings by effortlessly with the prospect of seeing Anastasia this evening, and giving her the gift. Before I know it, it's time to leave. I ignore the pleasure on Taylor's face as I climb into the back of the Audi SUV.

We are quiet all the way to SIP, which isn't altogether unusual. The nearer we draw to Anastasia's place of work, the more the anticipation grows. I want to see her, I want to hold her, take her in my arms and kiss her, deeply. I want to fuck her-no, make love to her. That was how Ana put it so long ago, wasn't it? Only weeks ago.

Taylor pulls up in front of SIP a few minutes shy of five thirty. As we wait, I remove my tie and unbutton my shirt a button or two, dressing down for the evening. An art exhibition is a little more casual than a day at the office as a CEO.

I stare anxiously toward the door, waiting for her to appear, but when she does, door held by some guy she smiles at in thanks, my throat dries, my jaw locks, and my body temperature rises several degrees. In response to anger, not lust.

I can't believe what I'm seeing, as she walks toward us.

She's absolutely gaunt, and so pale, nearly skeletal! How much weight has she fucking lost since Saturday? It hasn't been a week!

Remorse and shame surface, though not as strong as the anger, when I realize that this is entirely my doing. I did this to her.

Taylor clicks open the back door for her, and she slips in, onto the seat beside me. Up close, I can see that her eyes are too large in her face, and there are dark circles under those eyes, which she's poorly tried to conceal with makeup-which she doesn't need.

"When did you last eat?" I demand, and it comes out sharply, sharper than I had intended our meeting to begin, but dammit, she looks like hell!

Taylor rounds to the driver's side.

"Hello, Christian. Yes, it's nice to see you, too," she replies, sarcasm strong. I see she hasn't lost her wit.

"I don't want your smart mouth now. Answer me."

My anger seems to be getting through to her. For the first time, she looks tentative.

"Um... I had a yogurt at lunchtime. Oh-and a banana," she adds, as if that's fucking _anything at all_! A banana and yogurt combined are a mere one hundred and fifty calories, give or take! That's nothing! And it's late afternoon now.

"When did you last have a real meal?" I snap. I can hear the poison in my tone, but I can't do anything to conceal it. I'm really upset at the sight of her looking this way. It's taken me off guard, I wasn't expecting her to be so poorly affected by this. Me? Yes. But her? She was the one who left me.

Taylor turns the key in the ignition, and the engine hums to life. He shoulder checks and pulls out into the after-work traffic.

Ana glances out the window, toward the sidewalk, and I follow her gaze. The same guy who held the door for her is waving. She returns the gesture.

"Who's that?" I demand. My fuse is short, and I have little patience for strange men making moves on my girl.

"My boss," she replies, eyes flitting to my face again.

"Well?" I command, "Your last meal?"

"Christian, that really is none of your concern," she argues.

"Whatever you do concerns me," I retaliate, "Tell me."

She groans and rolls her eyes, and I'm so angry that when the inclination to spank her comes to mind, I almost entertain it. I feel my eyes narrow in warning.

Much to my surprise however, Anastasia doesn't look scared, or even worried. In fact, it appears that she's trying hard not to laugh.

In response, I feel my own expression turn my lips up slightly. She really does look lovely when she's amused.

"Well?" I urge, a little gentler now that some humor has seeped its way into the air between us.

"Pasta _alla vongole_, last Friday," she admits in a whisper.

The rage comes flaring back, along with the shame and regret.

_This is all your fault, you fucking idiot,_ I reprimand myself.

I close my eyes to try to contain it from her. "I see," I say, and all the animation has gone from my voice, in the same way as I've forced it from my face, "You look like you've lost at least five pounds, possibly more since then. Please eat, Anastasia," I beg her.

Her gaze is downcast now, focused on her hands, wrung together in her lap, where the material of that purple dress pools slightly. It's so much looser on her than when I saw her wear it last, and the shame bangs like a drum inside my chest.

I square my shoulders toward her now.

"How are you?" I'm desperate to know.

I watch her throat convulse as she swallows, obscured slightly by the dark waves of hair that fall over her neck and part of her face. I want to reach out and tuck the loose strands behind her ear, but I'm afraid it would be too forward of me right now.

"If I told you I was fine, I'd be lying."

Her honesty makes me gasp as relief and guilt flood me. Guilt, because I know it's my doing. And relief, because at least she feels the same that I do. At least she's missed me, too.

"Me, too," I tell her softly, and now I can't resist-I reach for her hand and take it in mine. Her fingers are soft and cool, and so, so welcome. "I miss you."

"Christian, I-" she begins.

"Ana, please," I interrupt her before she can get whatever she's trying to say out, "We need to talk." _I want you back, sweet girl. I'm powerless without you. I need you by my side._

"Christian... I... Please... I've cried so much," she whispers, emotion catching in her throat, showing on her face.

"Oh, baby, no," I murmur, and before I can weigh out the consequences, I tug her into my lap. I wrap my arms around her, pull her close, and bury my nose in her hair. Oh, sweet bliss. It is wonderful to have her close to me again. Her touch, her scent, it's like a salve to a burn wound. Healing, cooling, and it brings such unspeakable relief.

"I've missed you so much, Anastasia," I whisper.

She seems to relax now, resting her head on my shoulder, giving in, and I see this as a good sign. I kiss her head over and over, praising whatever gods may exist for allowing me to have this moment with her.

Sooner than I'd like to, we stop, and I have to let her go.

"Come," I urge her as I ease her off my lap, "we're here."

Confusion is apparent on her face as she stares helplessly at me.

"Helipad," I explain, "on the top of this building."

Taylor is there at her door now, and he opens it for her so she can slide out.

Taylor and I both agreed transportation by helicopter would be quickest. Plus, it gets Ana in my good books. The look on her face as we flew over the sound, toward Seattle that first time, was priceless.

As I climb out the other side, Ana says to Taylor, "I should give you back your handkerchief."

What?

"Keep it, Miss Steele, with my best wishes," he insists.

As I round the vehicle and take Ana's hand, blood floods her cheeks. I give Taylor a puzzled look that clearly says, 'What's that all about?' but he gives nothing away, only stares back at me serenely and without expression.

I decide to let it go.

"Nine?" We've decided he and Stephan will drive to Portland, where Stephan will return _Charlie Tango_ and Taylor will drive us home.

"Yes, sir," he agrees.

I nod and lead Ana through the door, into the building's foyer. It's gilded and formal, but I hardly notice my surroundings. All I'm focused on is Ana's hand in mine, the feel of her, present beside me, walking with me to the elevators.

I punch the call button with my thumb, recalling what elevators do to the both of us, and I can't suppress my amused smile.

There's a ding, and the doors slip open. I usher her inside, stepping in after she does. As the doors close, I feel it, predictable as ever. The lust crackles in the air between us, like an exposed live wire, and I want to kiss her, to have her, so badly.

"Oh my," she gasps, and I glance down at her, seeing it in her eyes, seeing the lust, reflecting back at me there, the intensity of it.

"I feel it too."

I run my thumb along her knuckles, and very softly, she bites down on that plump lower lip. My cock stirs in my pants after being dormant for too long. The desire stirs like a sleeping giant, in the pit of my stomach, waking after its slumber.

"Please don't bite your lip, Anastasia," I can only whisper, my voice rough and weakened by lust.

Obediently, she lets it go.

"You know what it does to me," I tell her.

Mercifully, the doors open before us, releasing us from our spell. We step out onto the roof and it's windy. It whips through my hair and pins our clothes against our bodies. I'm half afraid it'll sweep Ana away, so I put my arm around her and guide her over to where _Charlie Tango_ waits, rotor blades spinning, thanks to Stephan, who's brought her over for me.

He jumps down to shake my hand.

"Ready to go, sir. She's all yours!" he shouts over the noise of the spinning blades.

"All checks done?" I yell back.

"Yes, sir."

"You'll collect her around eight thirty?" I confirm.

"Yes, sir."

"Taylor's waiting for you out front."

"Thank you, Mr. Grey. Safe flight to Portland, Ma'am." He lifts a hand to his forehead to salute Ana, and then we're on our own.

Ducking down, I guide her to the door, helping her in and buckle her into the harness, which brings back fond memories.

I smirk at her knowingly. "This should keep you in your place. I must say I like this harness on you. Don't touch anything," I add.

That beautiful blush graces her face, bright crimson too, and I run an index finger over it. I hand her her headphones, knowing she won't be able to lean forward to reach them. She scowls at me, as if she's caught on.

I strap myself in to my own seat and run through my preflight checks, even though Stephan's done it for me. Better safe than sorry.

I slip my headphones on and switch the throttle, and the blades roar overhead.

I take a second to look at her, sitting beside me.

"Ready, baby?"

"Yes."

I grin, holding nothing back, joyous at her agreeance. She's ready. I love flying with her. I thought I enjoyed it before I met her, but showing this to her has given it an entirely new meaning, a totally different sort of fun.

"Sea-Tac tower, this is _Charlie Tango_ Golf-Golf Echo Hotel, cleared for takeoff to Portland via PDX. Please confirm, over."

"Good to go, _Charlie Tango,_" the tower responds, and relays some instructions.

"Roger, tower, _Charlie Tango_ set, over and out."

With that, I switch the collective and anti-torque switches, grasp the cyclic, and we rise up smoothly into the sky. The city gapes below us, falling away.

"We've chased the dawn, Anastasia, now the dusk."

.

We talk on the way over, about eating at the Space Needle despite the fact we've broken up, about Ana's new job, briefly.

By the time I set us down in Portland, we're right on time, and the sun is setting, the sky awash with beautiful colors.

I power down the helicopter, unbuckle my harness and lean over to free Ana from hers.

"Good trip, Miss Steele?" I question. I am on top of the world right now. It's a beautiful, crisp evening, and I'm in Portland with my girl. It's a very real possibility that things could change tonight. And though it fills me with trepidation, yes, because that means _I'll_ have to change, it fills me with enthrallment more.

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Grey."

"Well, let's go see the boy's photos," I say, helping her to find her footing on the helipad.

I turn to find Joe approaching us and release Ana's hand momentarily to shake his.

"Joe," I greet him. "Keep her safe for Stephan. He'll be along around eight or nine."

"Will do, Mr. Grey," Joe responds, "Ma'am," he nods at Ana, "Your car's waiting downstairs, sir. Oh, and the elevator's out of order; you'll need to use the stairs."

Normally, this would perturb me, but I don't think anything could make me upset right about now. I'm on a date with Miss Anastasia Steele.

"Thank you, Joe."

We head toward the stairwell.

"Good thing for you this is only three floors, in those heels," I say, giving the black heeled boots she wears a disapproving look. For how dangerous they are, they sure make her legs look amazing.

"Don't you like the boots?" she asks.

"I like them very much, Anastasia," I assure her. _In fact, I'd like to fuck you while you're wearing them, and only them. _"Come. We'll take it slow. I don't want you falling and breaking your neck."

_Not when I've only gotten the chance to have you back._

.

"Jose is just a friend."

Her words interrupt my thoughts, my brooding. I've fallen back into despair after our brief break from it on the trip over. She really is too thin, and I can't get over the fact that it's me who's done this to her. That I've caused her so much pain, it's pushed her appetite-already too small-away so completely.

Apprehension has begun to stir in my gut. Can I really do this? Can I really change so much for her? This is who I am, who I've defined myself as for so long. How can I just let that go? Not that I'm unwilling, because I am. I'd do anything for her, but how?

God, I need to call Flynn.

I glance over at Ana now, confused and distracted by her words. Automatically, though I've hardly noticed, my walls go up immediately, and I can feel the stone, the guard in my eyes. Don't let her in, don't let her see. It surprises me, how quickly it's come on, as if I haven't even had to try. It occurs to me I may need to try harder to let the guard down than to keep it up.

As I stare at her, her cheeks pink, and I'm made aware again, of just how much weight she's lost.

I shift in my seat, the emotion like bugs on my skin, uncomfortable.

"Those beautiful eyes look too large in your face, Anastasia. Please tell me you'll eat," I beg her.

"Yes, Christian, I'll eat," she relents, and I get the feeling she's only saying it to please me.

"I mean it," I push.

"Do you now?" she says, and I'm surprised by the scorn I hear in her voice.

"I don't want to fight with you, Anastasia. I want you back, and I want you healthy."

"But nothing's changed," she argues, and her voice almost shakes.

"Let's talk on the way back," I reason, "We're here."

I climb out of the car, step onto the sidewalk and pull open her door. She climbs out a little clumsily.

"Why do you do that?" she demands, and I'm surprised by the strength and noise behind her words.

"Do what?" I implore, thrown off guard by the suddenness of her explosion.

"Say something like that and then just stop," she elaborates.

I glance at the people milling around us and move closer to her, lowering my voice. "Anastasia, we're here. Where you want to be. Let's do this and then talk. I don't particularly want a scene in the street."

She seems to realize where we are, looking around. She presses her lips together, sulky, and glances at me. I realize I'm frowning at her.

"Okay," she acquiesces.

I take her hand, surprised every time that she doesn't pull away-but then, she's missed me too, apparently-and lead her into the building where the boy's art show is taking place.

The converted warehouse, consisting of brick walls and dark floors, holds up well to the menagerie of pieces we find inside. There's a large amount of space, both above us, to the high, white, exposed ceiling, and around us. It has a very modern feel, practical.

His photography is quite good. If I didn't know any better, I might have purchased some of his pieces if it weren't for our history.

"Good evening and welcome to Jose Rodriguez's show," a young woman greets us. She has short mousy brown hair and garish red lipstick. She's dressed all in black and clearly trying too hard. Her gaze flits between us a couple of times, lingering on my face for a tad longer than appropriate-it's just a face, doll-and she suddenly blinks.

"Oh, it's you, Ana," she says, recognizing her. Is it because she's looking so unhealthy that she didn't recognize her? Does she know her from somewhere? "We'll want your take on all this, too." She smiles, big, and hands Ana a brochure. She directs us to a pathetic table, where drinks and snacks are set up.

"You know her?" I ask Ana as we walk over.

Ana shakes her head, clearly confused.

I shrug, deciding that she may have crossed paths with her at school or something. "What would you like to drink?" I ask.

"I'll have a glass of white wine, thank you."

I feel my brow crease, frowning. She hasn't eaten enough to feed a mouse in days. She should not be drinking on such an empty stomach. It's reckless and irresponsible. However, I choose not to say anything, and turn toward the open bar to receive our drinks. She'd probably fight me on it, and I really am not in the mood to fight tonight, or any night for that matter. I want things to be as they were.

_As they were? But that's what sent her off in the first place_, that snide, rude voice in my head tells me. Damn my thoughts and all their truth.

I'm still trying to figure out how to go about the whole 'Changing Things' deal, but I decide to put it aside for now. This night, or at least the next hour or so, is about Ana's friend's art show. We'll talk afterwards. Who knows if she'll even agree to trying again?

"Grey? Is that you?"

I glance over my shoulder, in the direction of the voice.

"Fred. Hey. How are you?" I say, surprised to see him here. This isn't exactly what I would call 'black tie' but whatever.

We catch up a bit as we wait in line, and I feel as if someone's watching me, so I glance up, to find Ana's eyes on me from across the room. She's standing with the photographer now, who's dressed in a suit or a tuxedo, I can't tell from this distance.

It doesn't matter in this moment, because I'm suddenly lost, drifting in those ocean blue eyes. Floating in their waves, caught up in them. For a sudden, infinitesimal moment, it's just her and me in this big wide abandoned warehouse.

_Oh, Ana. I want you back. Do you feel the same about me?_

The spell is broken as the photographer calls her back, and she looks away. I stare at her a moment longer, as the woman with the short hair from before walks up to them, and then turn back, trying to catch up with Fred's story, who hadn't even noticed my lapse in attention.

When it's my turn at the bar, I order a Pinot grigio for Ana, and a Shiraz for myself. I head back into the throngs, finding Ana admiring a-and I hate to admit it-stunning shot of the lake at Vancouver, the early evening fuchsia clouds reflected in the still reflection of the water.

I hand her glass over.

"Does it come up to scratch?" she asks me.

Which? The photo? Does she really think I'd judge her friend so harshly? I may be a man of many means, but I appreciate good art when I see it.

"The wine," she elaborates.

_Oh._ "No. Rarely does at these kinds of events. The boy's quite talented, isn't he?" I ask to change the subject, and maybe ease some of her qualms, turning my attention to the photo again.

"Why else do you think I asked him to take your portrait?" she asks, and her voice is absolutely booming with pride. My eyes slide from the photograph to her face as I realize that she really does see this friend of hers fondly. If she speaks so highly of him, I wonder how I measure up?

"Christian Grey?" a voice interrupts us, and a photographer from _Portland Printz_ approaches. "Can I have a picture, sir?"

"Sure," I relent, trying to hide my frown, but I think I fail. Can't we have a moment of peace?

As the man lifts his camera, Ana goes to step out of the frame, but I grip her hand, pulling her to my side. _Oh, no you don't. _The man lowers his camera just slightly, glancing between the two of us. The look on his face is one of pure astonishment, as if he can't believe his luck.

"Mr. Grey, thank you," he says, and takes a couple of pictures. "Miss...?" he urges, turning his attention to Ana. I roll my eyes at his prodding.

"Ana Steele," she replies.

"Thank you, Miss Steele," he tells her, and he's gone, off searching for his next opportunity. No doubt he'll find Fred in the crowd.

"I looked for pictures of you with dates on the Internet," Anastasia tells me now, "There aren't any. That's why Kate thought you were gay."

The memory of Ana's question in my office that first fated day brings amusement, and I can't suppress my smile. "That explains your inappropriate question. No, I don't do dates, Anastasia-only with you. But you know that." _You know so much about me, Ana. More than anyone._

"So you never took your subs out?" she questions, glancing around the room surreptitiously.

"Sometimes. Not on dates. Shopping, you know." I shrug, keeping my eyes on hers. It was never in this way, there was always a different intention behind it. It was never sincere, like this.

She doesn't look totally convinced, lost in some sort of thought.

"Just you, Anastasia," I assure her.

Her cheeks color again, and she stares down at her fingers. What is she thinking?

"Your friend here seems more of a landscape man, not portraits. Let's look around," I suggest. I offer her my hand and she takes it.

We walk together through the warehouse, admiring a few more landscape pictures. As we turn the corner, my heart stops.

There, on the far wall, hang seven huge pictures of Anastasia, in various poses. Laughing, candid shots, serene, peaceful takes. She looks absolutely stunning in every single one, and there's a side of her that Jose has captured in film that I've only seen rarely. It makes me sad, and greedy and guilty. I want to see that side of her as much as he seems to. I've always thought Anastasia was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, worthy of my complete, undivided attention.

"Seems I'm not the only one," I muse aloud, and suddenly, through the dreaminess of staring at Ana in these photos, comes anger. Not at her, and not at myself. But at the photographer. Doesn't he know she's mine? All mine? Resolved, I release Anastasia's hand.

"Excuse me," I mutter to her, keeping my eyes on her for a fixed moment, so many emotions swimming through me. Then I turn and head over to the reception desk, where the girl from before stands behind it. She smiles at me as I approach.

"Hi, what can I do for you?" she asks.

"I'd like to buy the portraits of Anastasia."

"Which one, sir?" she asks.

"All of them."

"All of them?"

"Yes."

"All seven?" she blurts, blatantly shocked.

"All seven," I confirm.

A little thrown off, she tells me the total, and I take out my wallet, handing her my credit card. Once the transaction is finished, I turn back to Anastasia, but find a man standing close to her, too close, and he's got his hand on her elbow.

_Back the fuck off, buddy. She's mine._

"You're a lucky guy," he says to me when I step up to them. I glare at him.

"That I am," I agree, and pull Ana over to one side, away from the guy.

"Did you just buy one of these?" she asks me.

"One of these?" I snort, staring at the portraits, internally bracing myself for her reaction.

"You bought more than one?" her voice is high pitched and incredulous.

I roll my eyes. "I bought them all, Anastasia," I relent, "I don't want some stranger ogling you in the privacy of their home."

"You'd rather it was you?" she scoffs, and it sounds like she's holding in laughter.

I'm surprised by her reaction, and I stare down at her, trying to hide my amusement.

"Frankly, yes."

"Pervert." She mouths the word at me, biting her lip to hold down the smile.

My jaw drops in shock, and now I'm really humored, smiling all at the same time. And turned on, if I admit to it.

Deciding to play along, I stroke my chin thoughtfully.

"Can't argue with that assessment, Anastasia." I shake my head at her.

"I'd discuss it further with you, but I've signed an NDA."

I sigh, staring down at her. "What I'd like to do to your smart mouth."

She draws a breath quickly, gasping. "You're very rude," she says and she sounds shocked, but I think she's teasing.

I smirk, and then, my mind straying back to the photos, I frown.

"You look very relaxed in these photographs, Anastasia. I don't see you like that very often."

She blushes again and her gaze drops.

_Oh, no you don't._

I stick my finger under her chin and tilt her head back, so I can see her face.

"I want you that relaxed with me," I breathe.

Emotion, a hundred different kinds, courses through the sea in her eyes.

"You have to stop intimidating me if you want that," she barks.

"You have to learn to communicate and tell me how you feel," I return in much the same tone.

I watch her take in a breath. "Christian, you wanted me as a submissive. That's where the problem lies. It's in the definition of a submissive-you e-mailed it to me once." She pauses a moment, seemingly trying to remember the nature of the message. "I think the synonyms were, and I quote, 'compliant, pliant, amenable, passive, tractable, resigned, patient, docile, tame, subdued.' I wasn't supposed to look at you. Not talk to you unless you gave me permission to do so. What do you expect?" she spits at me.

The further on she goes, the deeper my mood plummets.

"It's very confusing being with you. You don't want me to defy you, but then you like my 'smart mouth.' You want obedience, except when you don't, so you can punish me. I just don't know which way is up when I'm with you."

I narrow my eyes at her. As always, she's hit the nail on the head. I understand her frustrations, how confusing this must be. I hadn't realized the extent of it. "Good point well made, Miss Steele," I say. "Come, let's go eat." I need to get her out of her now, so that we can talk.

"We've only been here for half an hour," she protests.

"You've seen the photos; you've spoken to the boy."

"His name is Jose," she says bitterly.

"You've spoken to Jose-the man who, the last time I met him, was trying to push his tongue into your reluctant mouth while you were drunk and sick," I remind her, fucking done with this subject. How many damn times have we gone over it?

"He's never hit me," she snaps back.

Rage blows through my veins, made even more potent, possibly, by the fact that the insult hurts my ego. "That's a low blow, Anastasia." Even to me, my whisper sounds menacing.

She visibly pales, and I run my hands through my hair, forcing myself to back off.

_Chill out, Grey. You're scaring her._

"I'm taking you for something to eat. You're fading away in front of me. Find the boy, say good-bye," I demand.

"Please, can we stay longer?" she begs.

"No. Go. Now. Say good-bye," I reiterate, barely holding onto my contained fury.

She glares at me a moment longer, and then turns to face the room, searching for her friend in the crowd. She stomps off rather impressively, toward the boy where he stands with a flock of young women. Ana pulls him aside and they talk for a minute. Just when I think I'm beginning to get a hold of myself, he picks her up and spins her in his arms, and when that's not enough, Ana very deliberately wraps her arms around his neck.

_Fucking hell!_

I make my way toward them.

"How cool is that? You're a poster girl," Jose is saying as I approach them, and he takes her in his arms again.

_I'm gonna punch you out, kid!_

"Don't be a stranger, Ana. Oh, Mr. Grey, good evening," he says, seeing me.

"Mr. Rodriguez, very impressive." I stand, spine ramrod straight. I feel like an ice sculpture. "I'm sorry we can't stay longer, but _we_ need to head back to Seattle." It's only a tiny lie. "Anastasia?" I take her hand firmly in mine. _Mine._

"Bye, Jose," Ana says, "Congratulations again." She leans in and kisses him on the cheek. Before my blood can completely boil over and I explode in front of everyone, I drag her out into the evening.

_I'll fucking show her a kiss._

I check for onlookers quickly, and then pull her into a nearby alley, pushing her up against the brick wall.

_I'll fucking show her who's in charge, and who she belongs to._

I grip her face in my hands, tilting it up so that she's forced to look me in the eyes. She begins to gasp, but before it can completely escape, my mouth is on hers, my lips crushing hers. Our teeth clash and scrape together momentarily, and then I force my tongue into her mouth.

She tastes like white wine, sweet and fragrant.

She responds immediately, kissing me back with just as much aggression. Her fingers rake through my hair, scraping against my scalp, pulling hard. Goddamn that feels good.

I groan low in my throat at the feeling, at the memory of my dream the other night.

I skate my hand down over the curves of her body, digging my fingers into the flesh at the top of her thigh. I can feel the supple smoothness of it, even through the material of her dress.

Where before the kiss began in anger, it's melted and molded into something different. I feel every ounce of my desperation, my heartache, everything pouring into this kiss, into her. It's my way of trying to communicate physically what I can't get across verbally or emotionally.

I'm blind with bliss, and consumed by the passion inside.

_Oh, Ana, please take me back... I want to do this with you._

Finally, I pull away, breathing hard. Her eyes are darkened by lust, wide and oh so blue. Vulnerable and completely trusting, and slightly bewildered by my unforeseen blitz.

She's panting too, lips parted as she draws air in hastily.

My heart is going to beat out of my chest, it's pounding so hard. It's not only the effort of a passionate kiss that has left me out of breath, but the simplicity of being near her, touching her. She drives me crazy.

"You. Are. Mine," I say, putting as much conviction into the words as I can, in my out-of-breath state. I plant my palms on the wall behind her and push off, putting some distance between us. I bend, putting my hands on my knees. Fuck. "For the love of God, Ana."

She slumps against the brick exterior and doesn't say anything.

There's quiet while the both of us struggle to regain some equilibrium.

"I'm sorry," she finally whispers, once our breathing has evened out.

"You should be," I tell her, "I know what you were doing. Do you want the photographer, Anastasia? He obviously has feelings for you."

She shakes her head, and in the dimness of the nearby street light, I can see the guilt on her face. "No. He's just a friend."

"I have spent all my adult life trying to avoid any extreme emotion. Yet you... You bring out feelings in me that are completely alien. It's very..." I trail off, struggling to find the right words. "Unsettling," I finally decide on. "I like control, Ana, and around you that just" I stand staring at her for a moment. "evaporates." I flip my hand in the air, then rake my fingers through my hair. I take a breath and reach for her hand once more.

"Come, we need to talk, and you need to eat."


	36. Chapter 36

**Thursday June 9****th**** 2011**

**.**

Short on time, I head into the first decent restaurant I see.

"This place will have to do. We don't have much time," I mumble, peeved that I let so much time get away from me at the show. This was the part of the evening I wanted the most time for.

Ella Fitzgerald is playing over the speakers, giving an intimate feel to our surroundings-dark tables and chairs, linen tablecloths, mirrors and white candles decorating the deep red walls.

"For two?" a young man asks, popping seemingly from out of nowhere.

"Please."

He gathers two menus and leads us to a table in the back, very private, which I am pleased at.

"We don't have long," I tell the waiter as soon as we're seated, "So we'll each have sirloin steak cooked medium, bernaise sauce if you have it, fries,"-Ana needs the calories-"and green vegetables, whatever the chef has; and bring me the wine list."

"Certainly, sir," the waiter says, appearing a little thrown by my order. He scurries away, and I just pray he relays the order correctly. I pull my Blackberry out of my pocket and place it on the table.

"And if I don't like steak?" Ana murmurs petulantly.

I sigh in exasperation. "Don't start, Anastasia," I plead.

"I am not a child, Christian," she insists, bullheaded and stubborn.

"Well, stop acting like one," I demand.

My words seem to upset her more, which I'm not surprised at, but I've held my tongue enough this evening.

"I'm a child because I don't like steak?" I can see that she's been wounded by my words, but I'm annoyed that our conversation has taken this trivial detour.

"For deliberately making me jealous," I explain. "It's a childish thing to do. Have you no regard for your friend's feelings, leading him on like that?"

Interrupted by the waiter's return with the wine list, I press my lips into a grim line, glowering at her.

Her cheeks turn pink.

"Would you like to choose the wine?" I ask, mostly because I know she knows nothing about it.

"You choose."

"Two glasses of the Barossa Valley Shiraz, please," I tell the waiter.

"Er..." he stammers, "We only sell that wine by the bottle, sir."

"A bottle, then," I snap at him. God, can't anything go my way this evening?

"Sir." He leaves, and Ana frowns at me.

"You're very grumpy," she observes.

I stare at her, expressionless. "I wonder why that is?"

"Well, it's good to see the right tone for an intimate and honest discussion about the future, wouldn't you say?" Her lips turn up into a sweet smile.

I press my lips together again, but I can't fight the smile that wrestles its way onto my face.

"I'm sorry," I find the face to apologize.

"Apology accepted," she says, much to my relief, "and I'm pleased to inform you I haven't decided to become a vegetarian since we last ate."

"Since that was the last time you ate, I think that's a moot point," I point out.

"There's that word again, 'moot.'"

"Moot," I say silently, and I sink into humor like a warm bath. I just can't stay angry too long around this woman. I run a hand through my hair, and decide to dive right in, composing myself. "Ana, the last time we spoke, you left me. I'm a little nervous. I've told you I want you back, and you've said... Nothing." I stare at her openly, and it's not lost on me that there's something in my face that must scream 'please.' I know I look desperate and imploring. There's nothing I can do about it.

"I've missed you... Really missed you, Christian," she says, "The past few days have been... Difficult." She pauses to swallow, and I see the anguish bloom on her face. "Nothing's changed. I can't be what you want me to be."

My stomach drops. She's trying to leave things as they are, right now. Does she not believe we could have a second chance?

Exasperation, also, surfaces at her words. Since when has she been anything less than perfect to me?

"You are what I want you to be," I insist, completely sincere.

"No, Christian, I'm not," she argues.

"You're upset because of what happened last time. I behaved stupidly, and you... So did you. Why didn't you safe-word, Anastasia?" I demand, and as I say the words, I can feel myself, and hear myself, getting angry again. Why the _fuck_ didn't she safe-word?

She says nothing.

"Answer me," I command her.

"I don't know," she blurts, "I was overwhelmed. I was trying to be what you wanted me to be, trying to deal with the pain, and it went out of my mind. You know... I forgot," she breathes, and she appears chagrined. She shrugs meekly.

"You forgot!" I nearly cry, gripping the sides of the table for stability. "How can I trust you? Ever?"

The waiter, who is developing a rap for interrupting us at the worst times possible, arrives with our wine.

We sit staring at each other for a long moment, a stand down.

The waiter removes the cork with an over-pronounced flourish, pours a splash into my glass. I taste it on auto-pilot.

"That's fine," I tell the waiter.

He fills our glasses, leaves the bottle, and walks away without another word.

The entire time, my eyes have been glued to Anastasia's. I am absolutely baffled and appalled. How? How on earth am I going to be able to trust her if she simply _forgot_ to safe-word? How am I going to know if I'm going too far? This is fucking paramount! There is _nothing_ more important than this!

Anastasia breaks eye contact, reaching for her glass and taking a big sip.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Sorry for what?"

"Not using the safe-word."

I close my eyes. "We might have avoided all this suffering."

"You look fine," she notes.

"Appearances can be deceptive. I'm anything but fine. I feel like the sun has set and not risen for five days, Ana. I'm in perpetual night here. You said you'd never leave, yet the going gets tough and you're out the door." I'm pleading with her now. Why? Why did you leave me? After you promised me you never would?

"When did I say I'd never leave?" she asks, clearly baffled.

"In your sleep. It was the most comforting thing I'd heard in so long, Anastasia. It made me relax."

She doesn't say anything, only reaches for her wine.

I'm babbling now, pouring out what's left of my black and mangled heart to her.

"You said you loved me," I breathe. "Is that now in the past tense?"

"No, Christian, it's not."

Relief floods through me so potent I think I'll lose consciousness. It warms me to the very core.

"Good."

The waiter approaches with our food now. My eyes are glued to Ana's face as he sets it in front of us. It smells amazing, mouth watering.

Anastasia's eyes widen, just slightly.

"Eat."

She just stares at it, as if she's completely forgotten how to use a knife and fork.

Anger grows in me quickly, coagulating like a malicious tumor.

"So help me God, Anastasia, if you don't eat, I will take you across my knee here in this restaurant, and it will have nothing to do with sexual gratification. Eat!" I snap.

"Okay, I'll eat," she assures me. "Stow your twitching palm, please."

Her comment does not make me laugh, it does not even crack a smile. I only stare at her. She reaches for her silverware, lifting the knife and fork, cutting into her meat. She lifts the morsel to her lips and chews.

The relief is palpable, and I feel my shoulders loosen as I watch her take another bite.

Once she's taken a third bite, I pick up my own utensils. We eat in companionable silence, and I keep my eyes on her the entire time. I am filled with longing, anxiety, lust... To know that she still loves me, it makes me want to take on the world. It baffles me, how less than a week ago, those words out of her mouth shook me to the very core, they abhorred me, terrified me. Now, it feels very different hearing her say the words.

"Do you know who's singing?" she asks, the question stiff, forced.

I pause to listen, but I can't make out the artist. "No... But she's good, whoever she is."

"I like her, too," Ana agrees.

I smile to myself, noting some of the lyrics so I can decode the song later, so I can add it to her playlist. This morning, I bought the newest model of iPad for Anastasia-and one for myself-and ever since I've been adding apps and songs to it. Mostly songs. To try and explain how I feel about her. It's my take on hearts and flowers.

"What?" Anastasia asks.

I shake my head. "Eat up," I remind her.

At my elbow, my phone buzzes dully. A text from Taylor comes through, informing me that he's arrived in Portland.

She sits back for a moment, examining her food. She's eaten approximately half of everything, including the huge twelve ounce steak.

"I can't manage any more. Have I eaten enough for Sir?"

I stare at her for a moment, surprised that her use of the word startles me. I glance at my watch. We're nearly out of time, and my heart sinks when I realize that now I'm going to need to take her home.

"I'm really full," she insists, taking another swallow of her wine.

"We have to go shortly. Taylor's here, and you have to be up for work in the morning."

"So do you," she points out.

"I function on a lot less sleep than you do, Anastasia. At least you've eaten something." I am satisfied with the state of her plate. She even has some more color in her face now, and she doesn't look so exhausted.

"Aren't we going back via _Charlie Tango_?" she asks.

"No, I thought I might have a drink. Taylor will pick us up. Besides, this way I have you in the car all to myself for a few hours, at least. What can we do but talk?"

I signal the waiter and ask him for the check.

"Certainly, Sir." He heads off for it.

I speed-dial Taylor.

"Mr. Grey," he answers.

"We're at Le Picotin, Southwest Third Avenue," I inform him, and hang up.

"You're very brusque with Taylor, in fact, with most people," Ana tells me.

"I just get to the point quickly, Anastasia," I argue.

"You haven't gotten to the point this evening. Nothing's changed, Christian."

I take a breath. "I have a proposition for you."

"This started with a proposition," she says, skeptical.

"A different proposition," I promise her.

The waiter is back with the check, and I hand over my credit card without reading the total. As the waiter swipes it, my phone buzzes again. Taylor is waiting outside.

Once everything is finished, I turn my gaze to Anastasia.

"Come. Taylor's outside."

We stand from the table, and link hands.

"I don't want to lose you, Anastasia," I tell her, kissing the back of her hand, her knuckles, softly.

With that said, I lead her outside to the Audi. I pull the door open for Ana and she climbs in.

I head over to the driver's side, and Taylor steps out to speak to me.

"Listen to some music on the way home, will you? Puccini, perhaps," I request, "Anastasia and I would like to talk."

"Certainly, Sir. The earbuds are in the console."

"Great."

I turn to climb in beside Anastasia, and Taylor slips back into the driver's seat.

Taylor situates himself, turning some soft instrumental music on in back as well, and heads for I-5.

I turn to look at her.

"As I was saying, Anastasia, I have a proposition for you."

She glances toward the driver's seat, clearly nervous about Taylor overhearing our conversation.

"Taylor can't hear you," I reassure her.

"How?" she asks, dubious.

"Taylor," I call. No response. "Taylor," I call again. Still nothing. I lean forward and tap him on the shoulder. Taylor removes his right ear bud.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Thank you, Taylor. It's okay; resume your listening."

"Sir."

"Happy now?" I ask Anastasia, "He's listening to his iPod. Puccini. Forget he's here. I do."

"Did you deliberately ask him to do that?" she asks.

"Yes."

Satisfied, she shifts toward me in her seat. "Okay, your proposition?"

Composing myself, I forge ahead.

"Let me ask you something first. Do you want a regular vanilla relationship with no kinky fuckery at all?" Because hands down, I couldn't do that. At least I think I couldn't. What I do know is that I definitely can't live without Anastasia in my life.

I can almost hear her lips pop open. "Kinky fuckery?" Her voice is high pitched and squeaky.

"Kinky fuckery," I confirm.

"I can't believe you said that."

"Well, I did. Answer me."

As expected, her cheeks turn bright pink in the dim light of passing headlights.

"I like your kinky fuckery," she admits in a whisper.

"That's what I thought," I say, though the relief is still staggering. "So what don't you like?"

_Please, Ana, be open and honest with me now. Communicate with me._

"The threat of cruel and unusual punishment," she says, her voice still soft.

"What does that mean?" I ask, confused.

"Well, you have all those canes and whips and stuff in your playroom, and they frighten the living daylights out of me," she shares, "I don't want you to use them on me."

Internally, I flinch. Damn. This is going to be harder than I thought. But I can't show her that. "Okay, so no whips or canes-or belts for that matter," I add.

She stares at me for a minute, realization dawning. "Are you attempting to redefine the hard limits?" she demands.

"Not as such, I'm just trying to understand you, get a clearer picture of what you do and don't like."

"Fundamentally, Christian, it's your joy in inflicting pain on me that's difficult for me to handle. And the idea that you'll do it because I have crossed some arbitrary line."

"But it's not arbitrary," I argue, puzzled, "The rules are written down."

"I don't want a set of rules," she says.

No rules?

"None at all?" The concept is unfathomable to me.

"No rules," she confirms, shaking her head.

"But you don't mind if I spank you?" She's enjoyed that in the past.

"Spank me with what?" she asks.

"This," I say, raising my hand, palm out.

Visibly, she shifts in her seat. Hmm. "No, not really," she admits, "Especially with those silver balls..." She gets awfully quiet, and I wonder if she's blushing, in the dark shroud of night. I would not be surprised in the slightest.

I smirk, recalling the night with the Ben Wa balls. "Yes, that was fun," I agree.

"More than fun."

"So you can deal with some pain," I clarify.

I see her shoulders shift up and down, a shrug. "Yes, I suppose."

I stroke my chin, processing our conversation thus far. "Anastasia, I want to start again. Do the vanilla thing and then maybe, once you trust me more and I trust you to be honest and to communicate with me, we could move on and do some of the things that I like to do."

The longer she stares at me without speaking, the faster and stronger the anxiety builds. What will she say? Will she laugh in my face? Are my expectations, my ideals, totally and completely ridiculous, impossible to achieve?

I want to try her side of things, and though that territory is foreign and completely unfamiliar to me, I want Anastasia, and I think the fear and discomfort of trying it far outweighs the familiar lifestyle I'm so used to, and in the process of keeping it, losing Anastasia.

Yes, I must find a way to do this.

"But what about punishments?" she asks after a long moment of silence.

"No punishments," I shake my head. "None."

"And the rules?" she asks.

"No rules."

_No rules. Hell, what am I talking about? What am I doing?_

Making changes. For good. A good I don't know if I'm damn well capable of, but I'm definitely willing to try.

"None at all?" she demands, incredulous. "But you have needs."

I draw in a breath. "I need you more, Anastasia," I confess, "These last few days have been hell. All my instincts tell me to let you go, tell me I don't deserve you. Those photos the boy took... I can see how he sees you. You look untroubled and beautiful, not that you're not beautiful now, but here you sit. I see your pain. It's hard, knowing that I'm the one who has made you feel this way. But I'm a selfish man. I've wanted you since you fell into my office. You are exquisite, honest, warm, strong, witty, beguilingly innocent; the list is endless. I'm in awe of you. I want you, and the thought of anyone else having you is like a knife twisting in my dark soul."

My words hang in the chasm between us, and I hold my breath as I finish speaking. So she knows how I feel now. It's the closest I can come to saying what I so desperately want to say, but what I'm so absolutely terrified to say. I don't know if I'll ever be able to say it. What I do know, is that I can't live without her. She's changing me. For the better, maybe.

"Christian, why do you think you have a dark soul?" she asks, "I would never say that. Sad maybe, but you're a good man. I can see that... You're generous, you're kind, and you've never lied to me. And I haven't tried very hard. Last Saturday was such a shock to my system. It was my wake-up call. I realized that I couldn't be the person you wanted me to be. Then, after I left, it dawned on me that the physical pain you inflicted was not as bad as the pain of losing you. I do want to please you, but it's hard."

"You please me all the time," I insist, floored by her confession. "How often do I have to tell you that?"

"I never know what you're thinking. Sometimes you're so closed off... Like an island state. You intimidate me. That's why I keep quiet. I don't know which way your mood is going to go. It swings from north to south and back again in a nanosecond. It's confusing and you won't let me touch you, and I want so much to show you how much I love you."

I blink in the darkness, confused by her words. How could someone ever show their love for me by touching me? I don't understand how that would work at all.

Before I can begin to try to figure it out, she's unbuckling her seat belt and vaulting herself across the car at me, nestling herself into my lap.

She puts her hands on either side of my face, and in the swatches of light that zip by, I can see her eyes, intense and full of passion, focused on mine.

"I love you, Christian Grey," she confesses, "And you're prepared to do all this for me. I'm the one who is undeserving, and I'm just sorry that I can't do all those things for you. Maybe with time... I don't know... But yes, I accept your proposition. Where do I sign?"

Oh, thank the heavens! She's said yes! She's giving me a second chance, a chance to really make things right! Despite all the things I want to argue with her about, I leave them be for now, and pull her to me, tight.

"Oh, Ana," I whisper, burying my nose in her hair, breathing her in.

We sit in silence for a long time, listening to the music, and just being. I run my hands up and down her back, feeling her breath wash over my neck every time she exhales. It's comforting. I feel very tranquil in this moment, very relaxed.

There is one thing, however, that I need to make clear, and though it pains me to say it, it pains me more not to.

"Touching is a hard limit for me, Anastasia."

"I know," she replies, not seeming too upset about it, "I wish I understood why."

_No she doesn't._

But at the same time, she's been so open and honest with me, and if we're going to do things the way we plan them, then maybe she deserves to know some of went on in my childhood. I want to share myself with her, and if that includes the bad shit in order to give her all of me, I guess I'll have to share some of the bad shit.

I'm terrified of how she'll see me once she knows, but I push on with it anyway.

"I had a horrific childhood. One of the crack whore's pimps..." I trail off, every muscle in my body tensing against the memory. I choke on the suddenly very visceral smell of cigarette smoke and cheap booze. "I can remember that," I hear myself whisper, and shudder. I run my fingers along the material of Anastasia's dress, reminding myself that she's here and I'm here, in the now.

Her arms tighten around my neck, and it helps to calm me, the physical feeling of _her._

"Was she abusive? Your mother?" she asks. She sounds emotional, as if she's fighting back tears, and the realization makes me uncomfortable. _Please don't cry for me, Ana._

"Not that I remember. She was neglectful. She didn't protect me from her pimp." I snort, realizing the ridiculousness of the situation. "I think it was me who looked after her. When she finally killed herself, it took four days for someone to raise the alarm and find us... I remember that."

Anastasia gasps, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the onslaught of emotions. The fear, the _hunger_...

"That's pretty fucked-up," she breathes.

"Fifty shades," I agree.

I feel her lips press against my neck, warm.

I tighten my hold on her and rest my cheek atop her head.

We fall into quiet again, and I am relieved that nothing catastrophic happened when I told her about my childhood. Everything is okay, and she didn't seem repulsed or scared off.

After awhile, I realize that she's fallen asleep, relaxed against me and her breathing has evened out.

I settle in for the drive, eyes on her slightly upturned face.


	37. Chapter 37

**Thursday, June 9****th**** 2011**

**.**

Ana stirs as we travel through the city, almost back to her apartment.

"Hey," I greet her softly as she wakes.

"Sorry," she mumbles, her voice still thick with grogginess. She sits up, stretching her limbs and blinking sleepily. She looks adorable, beautiful, stunning.

"I could watch you sleep forever, Ana," I tell her.

"Did I say anything?" she asks, wary.

"No. We're nearly at your place."

My words seem to disappoint her. "We're not going to yours?"

"No."

She straightens and stares at me. "Why not?"

"Because you have work tomorrow," I reason.

"Oh." Her lips turn down in a pout, and I have to suppress my amusement.

"Why, did you have something in mind?"

She squirms in my lap. "Well, maybe."

I chuckle. "Anastasia, I am not going to touch you again, not until you beg me to."

"What!" she cries, appalled.

"So that you'll start communicating with me." Using sex as a weapon of sorts has always worked for me before. "Next time we make love, you're going to have to tell me exactly what you want in fine detail." I pause internally for a moment, pondering the way I've said 'make love' and not 'fuck.' God, this woman is changing me; but there's nothing I'd like more than to make love to her.

"Oh," she says.

I ease her off my lap, onto the seat beside me, as we pull up in front of her building. It's not far from my own apartment. Just around the corner, really.

I climb out into the succulent summer night and hold her door open for her.

She steps out onto the pavement.

"I have something for you," I tell her, and move to the back of the car, opening the trunk. I pull out the gift wrapped box, which contains the Macbook and Blackberry she tried to return to me last Saturday, and the new, personalized iPad-complete with a picture of my glider on the lock screen, to prove that I built it and that it really does take pride on my desk; and for the home background, the picture of me and her, taken at her graduation. I've added the British Library app, which I know she'll love, iBooks, Words, a recipe app I hope she'll use, especially now, and a variety of music, which is the part I'm most excited for her to discover. And nervous about, if I have to be honest.

She looks baffled, and a tad suspicious.

"Open it when you get inside," I tell her.

"You're not coming in?" She looks crestfallen.

"No, Anastasia." Have I not made that clear? If I come in, I won't be leaving.

"So when will I see you?" she implores.

"Tomorrow," I reassure her, and myself.

"My boss wants me to go for a drink with him tomorrow," she reports.

What the actual fuck?

"Does he now?" I say, not hiding my displeasure. That's stepping a little over his bounds, isn't it?

"To celebrate my first week," she adds.

"Where?"

"I don't know," she admits.

"I could pick you up from there." I ignore the itch underneath my skin. Making compromises like this is unfamiliar and uncomfortable for me. Especially revolving around other men, and I don't like it at all.

"Okay... I'll e-mail or text you."

"Good," I say.

I walk her to the lobby door, and that's as far as I'll go. No elevators or apartment doors for us. I honestly don't know if I'd be able to control myself around her. I'm going to need her to start begging soon. Real soon.

She fishes her keys out of her purse and unlocks the door. As she does so, I reach for her chin, tilting her face up. Closing my eyes, I leave a series of kisses over her face, from the corner of her eye, down to the corner of her mouth.

_She's mine. Again._

She moans softly, and the sound makes me stir in my pants.

"Until tomorrow," I whisper to her, and as a promise to my over eager dick.

"Good night, Christian."

I smile at her. "In you go."

She obeys, heading through the lobby with her box of gifts.

"Laters, baby," I call after her, then turn and head back to the car.

I situate myself in the front passenger seat.

Taylor has removed his ear buds, and has his hands on the wheel.

"Good night, Sir?" he asks.

"Good night, Taylor."

.

When I arrive home, I take a long, hot shower. I truly let myself feel the hot water on my back, kneading my muscles. I let myself feel everything, and I'm not so afraid anymore.

Despite the numerous qualms and hesitant worries I have over this next step in my relationship with Ana, there's hope there too. There's something new brewing, and as scary as it is, I'm excited for it.

Once I've washed my hair and soaped my body off, I step out of the shower, drying my hair and wrapping a towel around my waist. I head into my bedroom, pull on a t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants.

I pick up my Blackberry and decide to check my e-mails quickly, before I head to bed.

I am exhausted after today's events, and I haven't looked forward to sleep for a long five days.

My inbox loads, and I'm surprised to already see an email from Anastasia.

.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **IPAD

**Date: **June 9 2011 23:56

**To: **Christian Grey

You've made me cry again.

I love the iPad.

I love the songs.

I love the British Library App.

I love you.

Thank you.

Good night.

Ana xx

.

My heart swells at her email. I'm so, so glad she likes it. Hopefully she sees just how much I've put into this gift.

.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **iPad

**Date: **June 10 2011 00:03

**To: **Anastasia Steele

I'm glad you like it. I bought one for myself.

Now, if I were there, I would kiss away your tears.

But I'm not-so go to sleep.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Mr. Grumpy

**Date: **June 10 2011 00:07

**To: **Christian Grey

You sound your usual bossy and possibly tense, possibly grumpy self, Mr. Grey.

I know something that could ease that. But then, you're not here-you wouldn't let me stay, and you expect me to beg...

Dream on, Sir.

Ana xx

PS: I also note that you included the Stalker's Anthem, "Every Breath You Take." I do enjoy your sense of humor, but does Dr. Flynn know?

.

I laugh, shaking my head at my phone as I read over her email.

Lord have mercy. It's going to be a long few days... But I am so, so glad for them. Because I'll be spending them with Anastasia.

.

**Friday, June 10****th**** 2011**

**.**

Andrea has managed to find me a slot with Flynn at 4:30 in the afternoon, which I am grateful for. It has been too long since I've seen him, and so much has happened.

"How have things been, Christian?" he asks me, from where he sits casually in his chair. The late afternoon sun streams into his office, catching the crystal paper weight on his desk, throwing rainbows onto the wall opposite.

I chuckle, because so much has happened since I last saw Flynn.

"Where do I even start?" I ask him rhetorically.

"The beginning might be nice," Flynn tells me, his tone sarcastic. He smirks at me.

I shake my head at him. "Ana left me last Saturday."

There is an immediate fluctuation of emotions on Flynn's face. Surprise, disappointment, pity... I resist the urge to frown at that one.

"And how has that been for you?"

"We talked last night," I report, picking a piece of lint off my knee, "And we're back together now, but before that..." I trail off, recalling those five days of night, and shudder. "I was a mess, John."

"What happened, Christian?"

"It's a long story," I admit, and John glances at the clock on the wall.

"We've got an hour," he reminds me.

"I hit her." He keeps his face expressionless. "With a belt."

"Whatever caused you do to that, Christian?"

"She asked me to," I say, shrugging, "and not in the 'she was asking for it' kind of way, but she literally wanted to see how bad it could get, or something along those lines. She wanted..." I stop myself, feeling suddenly, as if I'm choking on something.

"What?" Flynn urges softly.

"She wanted to know what it was like for me to be touched... And so I showed her. I was stupid, John, really stupid. I don't know what I was thinking-I wasn't thinking, I suppose. I sort of... Went off somewhere," I wave my hand in the air, "It was strange."

"Tell me about that."

"I don't know, it was like I blanked out. I was back in the crack whore's house, and her pimp was beating me, and her-it all kind of jumbled-and it was as if Ana just disappeared from in front of me."

"Flashbacks can do that to a person," John says.

I shrug one shoulder. "Anyway, she didn't safe-word, and that's just really fucked up. It worries me, because how are we going to communicate properly now? There's a lot of trust to rebuild."

"It sounds like you've already begun the process," he urges.

"I went to her friend's photography exhibition with her last night. We had dinner after. We talked. She... She looked awful, John. So thin. She'd lost so much weight, and it killed me to know that I was the one who had done it to her. The whole time, I had thought it had been only me who had been affected so badly by it, and here she was, just as thrown, just as torn up over it."

"Tell me how it affected you, Christian. What were those five days like for you?"

Internally, I shudder. At the memory of the nightmares, of the black pit of despair, of the dark, dark thoughts. "It was awful. Awful doesn't even begin to explain it. I've never, ever in my life, felt so horribly. I... Didn't think I'd get through it, honestly. It made me look at a lot of things differently."

"What things?"

I look him in the eye now. "I can't live without her, John. And that changes everything. _Everything._ I don't know how the hell I'm going to start, but I'm going to change for her. I have to. There is no other way. I have to be with her."

.

I check my e-mails as I head out of Flynn's office, and am glad to see there's one waiting for me from Anastasia.

I open it in the elevator.

.

**From:** Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **You'll Fit Right In

**Date: **June 10 2011 17:36

**To: **Christian Grey

We are going to a bar called Fifty's.

The rich seam of humor that I could mine from this is endless.

I look forward to seeing you there, Mr. Grey.

x

.

I smirk and type out my reply. There is excitement thrumming at my chest. I get to see her again. Two days in a row. And tonight, I will make her beg.

.

**From:** Christian Grey

**Subject: **Hazards

**Date: **June 10 2011 17:38

**To:** Anastasia Steele

Mining is a very, very dangerous occupation.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

.

**From:** Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Hazards?

**Date: **June 10 2011 17:40

**To: **Christian Grey

And your point is?

.

I exit into the lobby and head for the doors. Through the glass panes, I can see Taylor idling at the curb.

I make my way out. Taylor opens the door for me, and I climb in the car.

.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Merely...

**Date: **June 10 2011 17:42

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Making an observation, Miss Steele.

I'll see you shortly.

Sooners rather than laters, baby.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

.

.

My Blackberry rings as we reach the first stoplight.

I recognize my mother's number immediately, and sigh in exasperation. I'm not really in the mood for a long, drawn out conversation with her right about now. I have better things to do. I love my mom, but she can really ramble-about things I could care less about, as a man.

"Hello, mother," I greet her.

"Oh, Christian," she chides, "At least try to _sound _excited to hear from me."

"I'm sorry. How are you?"

"I'm fine, dear. It's you I'm worried about. I haven't heard from you in a week! Is everything alright?"

"Yes, everything's fine, mother. I've just been..." I pause, "Busy."

"Yes, yes, being a CEO will do that to you. So will being a doctor, but dear, I always make time for my family."

I sigh. "I really am sorry, mother. I promise I'll keep you updated on my life more often."

"How is Anastasia?" she fishes.

I smirk. "She's fine, mother. I'm on my way to see her now."

"Oh, wonderful! Do invite her to the party tomorrow."

_Party? Shit! I'd completely forgotten!_ My mother and father host a charity ball every year, a fundraiser to help those in need.

"I'll do that, mother."

"We'll see you tomorrow then."

"Yes."

"Goodbye, dear."

"Goodbye, mother."

.

When I walk into the bar, I see him before I see her.

He's standing too close to her, arm on the bar. She looks trapped and uncomfortable, and totally lost, and my easy-going mood evaporates like morning fog.

I push my way through the crowds toward them.

_Easy, Grey. This is her boss we're talking about. She only just started here._

So before I can be the intimidating CEO who could _so_ easily have this guy's ass, I have to be the doting, calm and collected boyfriend.

Upon reaching them, I drape an arm over Ana's shoulders, staking my claim. As we touch, a current runs through me, and my anxiety is taken down a couple notches. It helps to touch her, to have her near me.

"Hello, baby," I hum.

I pull her closer to me, making it clear that she belongs to me, and I turn my gaze to the despicable Jack Hyde. He looks disheveled and pathetic in his off-brand jeans and faded black shirt. Such slime. From the check I had Welch run, the guy's a real piece of shit. There's something suspicious about the procession of past assistants, and it automatically makes me wary about Ana's position with him. I don't like it.

I turn my attention to Ana now, who's looking up at me, so trusting, and she looks immensely relieved. I grin briefly at her, and duck down to kiss her. I'd like to sweep her in my arms and deepen the kiss, but it's just not appropriate in a setting like this, no matter how much I'd like to show Jack.

I'm pleased when he seems uncomfortable, and takes a step back, giving us the space we deserve.

"Jack, this is Christian," Ana says in way of introduction, but I don't miss the undertone of apology in her voice. Why does she sound apologetic? Is she ashamed of me? "Christian, Jack."

"I'm the boyfriend," I state, like he'd missed it. I force a polite smile and shake his hand. His grip is weak and flaccid. I watch him size me up, and I want to scoff at him. As if, buddy. As fucking if.

"I'm the boss," he tells me, smart-assed and loud-mouthed. "Ana did mention an ex-boyfriend."

Does he seriously think I'm going to falter under that shrimpy glare of his? Heat ignites inside, rage spreading quickly like wildfire. In my pocket, my fingers twitch. I'd like to knock him out.

"Well, no-longer-ex," I reply, and I'm relived that I sound composed.

_This is no place to cause a scene. _

I have to be on my best behavior for Ana, but I honestly don't know how much longer I'm going to last. Better get us out of here. I'm ready to have her all to myself again.

"Come on, baby, time to go."

"Please, stay and join us for a drink," Jack interjects.

_I don't damn well think so._

"We have plans," I tell him, smiling to myself. Oh yes. Plans, indeed. "Another time, perhaps. Come," I add to Ana, slipping my arm off her shoulder and skimming it down her arm to take her hand.

She's wearing my favorite pair of jeans on her, which show off that perfect ass of hers, and the light blue blouse Taylor bought for her the morning after she vomited all over her t-shirt at the bar. The first time I slept with her... The first time I slept without nightmares...

"See you Monday," Ana says, throwing a polite smile her boss's way, and then passing it on to the other people she was with.

It fills me with pleasure to see the disappointment and displeasure on Jack's face, before I turn and lead Ana out the door, onto the street.

"Why did that feel like a pissing contest?" she asks me as I pull open the car door for her.

"Because it was," I say, smiling at her. I shut the door and round to the other side, slipping in beside her.

I take her hand, planting soft kisses on her smooth knuckles.

"Hi."

Beautifully, her cheeks flush. "Hi."

She looks gorgeous, and radiant. A far cry from yesterday.

"What would you like to do this evening?" I ask her.

"I thought you said we had plans," she shoots back.

"Oh, I know what I'd like to do, Anastasia." _I'd like to fuck you into next week, and then do it all over again. But you're going to have to beg. _"I'm asking you what you want to do."

She only grins, which answers that question for me.

"I see," I say, grinning right back at her, "So... Begging it is, then. Do you want to beg at my place or yours?" I tilt my head at her, smiling at her teasingly.

"I think you're being very presumptuous, Mr. Grey," she tells me, "But by way of a change, we could go to my apartment."

She bites down on that lush lower lip, and by the look in her eyes, I know she's done it on purpose. I feel my own eyes darken in response.

"Taylor, Miss Steele's, please," I order without taking my eyes off of her.

"Sir."


	38. Chapter 38

**Friday, June 10****th**** 2011**

**.**

"So how has your day been?" I ask her on the drive over.

"Good," she replies. "Yours?"

"Good, thank you."

I'm aware that we're both smiling like idiots, but I can't help it. I'm just so glad to have her back. I kiss her hand again.

"You look lovely," I tell her, because it's true. I'm amazed at the difference a day can make.

"As do you."

"Your boss, Jack Hyde, is he good at his job?" I ask her, because I can't hold back anymore. Frankly, I'm not happy that's she's working in such close quarters with him; especially when he's making advances on her like I saw at the bar a few minutes ago.

She frowns. "Why? This isn't about your pissing contest?"

I can't help but smirk at her. She is oh so naive. "That man wants into your panties, Anastasia."

As expected, she turns bright red. Her jaw drops, and she glances at Taylor, who acts as if he hasn't heard a thing.

"Well, he can want all he likes," she snaps. "Why are we even having this conversation? You know I have no interest in him whatsoever. He's just my boss."

_The reason we are having this conversation, my dear Anastasia, is so that I can determine whether he's worth anything to SIP-and in turn, worth keeping there._

"That's the point," I push, "He wants what's mine. I need to know if he's good at his job."

Ana shrugs her shoulders. "I think so," she says, but she doesn't sound too convinced either way.

"Well, he'd better leave you alone, or he'll find himself on his ass on the sidewalk."

"Oh, Christian, what are you talking about?" she nearly whines, "He hasn't done anything wrong."

"He makes one move, you tell me," I order her, "It's called gross moral turpitude-or sexual harassment."

"It was just a drink after work," Ana tries to justify.

"I mean it," I push, "One move and he's out." There is no way I'm letting anything happen to my girl she doesn't want coming. There's no way I'm letting that bastard touch what's mine.

"You don't have that kind of power!" Ana cries. In the next second, understanding lights up in her eyes like New Years Eve. "Do you, Christian?"

I smile at her knowingly.

"You're buying the company," she whispers in assumption, and something in her undertone tells me she's not happy about it.

Automatically, I'm cautious and I feel my smile fade. "Not exactly," I tell her. The deal was, technically, made final Tuesday afternoon.

"You've bought SIP. Already." She still sounds horrified.

"Possibly," I say, blinking warily at her. Damn. How is she going to react to this? I was expecting a much warmer reception to the announcement.

"You have or you haven't?" she demands.

"Have," I admit.

"Why?" she gasps, eyes nearly bugging out of her head.

Indignity rises. "Because I can, Anastasia. I need you safe."

"But you said you wouldn't interfere in my career!" she complains.

"And I won't," I promise. _Unless it requires keeping you safe, in which point, the promise is moot. _My promise to protect her is stronger than the promise to make her happy. That's what it comes down to.

She pulls her hand out of mine. Shit. Now I'm in trouble.

"Christian..." she stammers, lips flapping without words. I've left her speechless.

"Are you mad at me?" I ask her.

"Yes!" she cries, "Of course I'm mad at you! I mean, what kind of responsible business executive makes decisions based on who he is currently fucking?"

For one fucking thing: I am not irresponsible. And two: I am not just 'currently fucking' Anastasia. I loathe when she says that, and it makes me mad.

I open my mouth to argue, but it falls shut again without words. I only scowl at her in distaste. I really don't want to fight; I want to fuck, and so I bite my tongue. She scowls right back at me.

We stay this way until, a couple minutes later, we arrive at her apartment building.

Before I can get out and open her door for her, she pops it open herself and struggles her way out of the car.

"I think you'd better wait here," I say to Taylor, "If she lets me in, bring the Audi tonight, will you?"

"Yes, Sir."

I follow her to the door, where she's digging through her purse for her keys.

"Anastasia."

She exhales sharply and turns toward me. Now is the time to explain, and suck up, like a typical boyfriend.

"First, I haven't fucked you for a while-a long while, it feels-and second, I wanted to get into publishing." Eventually. "Of the four companies in Seattle, SIP is the most profitable, but it's on the cusp and it's going stagnate-it needs to branch out." These are things I heard in the meeting a few days ago with Ros, when I decided to go ahead and make an offer on it anyway. They would have been imbeciles not to accept.

She doesn't say a word, only glares at me. God, she looks hot when she's mad. The blue in her eyes has hardened into ice.

"So you're my boss now," she finally barks, arms folded over her chest, keys forgotten for now.

"Technically, I'm your boss's boss's boss," I correct her.

"And, technically, it's gross moral turpitude-the fact that I am fucking my boss's boss's boss," she adds.

"At the moment, you're arguing with him."

"That's because he's such an _ass_," she spits at me.

Abruptly, I'm shocked, and damn right amused.

"An ass?"

"Yes," she snaps, and I can see her anger slipping.

"An ass?" I repeat, dubious. My own lips begin to turn up at the corners, no matter how hard I fight them.

"Don't make me laugh when I am mad at you!" she yells at me.

I can't help it anymore-I grin like a lunatic, laughing. Her composure breaks too, and her giggle choruses like sweet, sweet bells around us. It's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.

"Just because I have a stupid damn grin on my face doesn't mean I'm not mad as hell at you," she gasps through her laughter.

I lean closer, reveling in the moment. I nuzzle her nose with my hair, inhaling the scent of it.

"As ever, Miss Steele, you are unexpected. So are you going to let me in, or am I to be sent packing for exercising my democratic right as an American citizen, entrepreneur, and consumer to purchase whatever I damn well please?" My lips twitch in response to my own ingenious humor.

"Have you spoken to Dr. Flynn about this?" she asks.

I can't help but laugh. "Are you going to let me in or not, Anastasia?"

She stares at me, stone faced, biting her lip to hold down the smile, and turns toward the door, finally pulling out her keys to unlock it.

As she turns the key in the padlock, I turn and wave at Taylor, and he pulls away from the curb.

I follow Anastasia through the lobby and into the elevator. Once we're in her apartment, I look around appreciatively. For such a small space, they've done well with it. But it really is too small. I feel caged in as I pace the living room.

"Nice place," I tell her.

"Kate's parents bought it for her," she reports.

I nod, only half-listening. What I'm really focused on is how I'm going to get her to beg. There's something heady about knowing we'd be the first ones to 'break the apartment in' as sorts.

I turn my eyes on hers, and I know the lust I'm feeling is conveyed in my gaze.

"Er..." she stammers, staring back at me, "Would you like a drink?" Her cheeks pink, nervous.

"No thank you, Anastasia." _Just a tall glass of you, please. Now beg. _"What would you like to do, Anastasia?" I ask, beginning to stalk toward her. I feel drunk on her, alive and buzzing. My blood is humming through my veins, bubbly like champagne. "I know what I want to do."

As I approach her, she steps backwards until she hits the concrete kitchen island. She rests her hands on the top, as if to steady herself. Her blue eyes are swimming, unfocused, dazzled.

"I'm still mad at you." But her voice holds no conviction, so I know it's not true.

"I know," I say anyway, and give her my best charming smile.

"Would you like something to eat?" she asks.

Slowly, I nod. "Yes. You." Mmm... The taste of divine Miss Anastasia Steele... Oh, I want her. Here. Now. On top of the kitchen island.

I stop in front of her, leaving just enough space between us so we're not touching, and I stare down into those gorgeous eyes of hers. Depthless and open, completely receptive. And chock-full of lust.

"Have you eaten today?" I ask her. The question comes automatically. As much as I'd like to ignore it and get on to the main course of sorts, I need her strong and with stamina.

"I had a sandwich at lunch," she breathes.

Begrudgingly, I narrow my eyes. "You need to eat."

"I'm really not hungry right now... For food," she tells me.

Frankly, neither am I. "What are you hungry for, Miss Steele?" I urge her. _C'mon, Ana, I'm making this really easy for you._

"I think you know, Mr. Grey."

I lean down, until our lips are just a mere inch apart. I can feel her breath on my face, and the heat radiating off of her. She's so damn hot.

"Do you want me to kiss you, Anastasia?" I ask her.

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Everywhere."

Hmm. Getting there. But not close enough.

"You're going to have to be a bit more specific than that," I murmur, "I told you I am not going to touch you until you beg me and tell me what to do."

"Please," she whispers, and the word makes me smile.

"Please what?"

"Touch me."

"Where, baby?"

In the next moment, she surprises me, throws me off guard, by reaching up with her hands.

_Shit!_

"No, no," I say, and thank the Lord, my voice sounds even, controlled, as I step back, heart pounding. Fuck. That was too close.

"What?" She looks lost and forlorn.

"No." I shake my head at her, still reeling, still recovering. I let my guard down too far; I'd gotten used to not having to be careful about her touching me. Through the panic and the fear, there's another turmoil of emotions-emotions I'm not quite sure what to make of. Part of me _wants _her to touch me.

"Not at all?" It pains me to hear the want in her voice.

_Not at all..._ I mull the words over in my head. Well, no. Maybe not at all. In the past we've-she steps toward me, and automatically, I take another step back, hands flying up in front of me, palms forward in defense.

I make sure to keep smiling.

"Look, Ana," I warn her, and then I trail off, not knowing how to explain. What the hell is happening to me?

I turn away from her and rake a hand through my hair, causing it to stand on end. Fuck me and all my goddamn issues.

"Sometimes you don't mind," she implores. "Perhaps I should find a marker pen, and we could map out the no-go areas."

I raise an eyebrow. "That's not a bad idea. Where's your bedroom?"

She juts her chin in its direction.

"Have you been taking your pill?" It suddenly occurs to me to ask her.

Her face blanks, eyes going wide. Honestly, it doesn't surprise me, but it disappoints me all the same. If she'd forgotten to eat, how the hell was she going to remember to take her birth control pills?

"No."

"I see." So the damn condoms are back then. I press my lips together. "Come, let's have something to eat," I suggest.

"I thought we were going to bed!" she complains, "I want to go to bed with you."

"I know, baby," I say, smiling at her. I can't help it. She's so adorable. Suddenly, playful, I scurry toward her, manacling her wrists and pulling her into my arms. We are suddenly flush, chest to chest.

"You need to eat and so do I. Besides... Anticipation is the key to seduction, and right now, I'm really into delayed gratification."

"I'm seduced and I want my gratification now," she protests. "I'll beg, please."

I smile at her. "Eat. You're too slender." I plant a kiss on her forehead and let her go.

She turns baleful, regretful eyes on me. "I'm still mad that you bought SIP, and now I'm mad at you because you're making me wait." She sticks her bottom lip out in a pout.

"You are one angry little madam, aren't you?" I tease. "You'll feel better after a good meal."

"I know what I'll feel better after," she counters.

"Anastasia Steele, I'm shocked," I goad her.

"Stop teasing me," she begs, "You don't fight fair."

I try to muffle my grin by chomping down on my lower lip, like she's done in the past. We gaze at each other for a couple of moments.

"I could cook something," she offers, "except we'll have to go shopping."

I'm confused. "Shopping?"

"For groceries," she clarifies.

"You have no food here?" I say, horror and antagonism putting a damper on my before-playful mood. She's been eating even less than I thought! Fuck!

Anastasia has the decency to look ashamed as she shakes her head.

"Let's go shopping, then."

.

"You look very domestic," Anastasia comments when we've returned from our walk to the supermarket-as she no longer has a car, and Taylor hasn't arrived with the Audi yet.

I set the bags on the counter. "No one has ever accused me of that before."

I watch her unload the bags for a moment, admiring her easy grace around the kitchen, the sway of her hips. Oh, lord, that ass in those jeans...

To distract myself-we need to eat first-I pull out the bottle of white wine I picked up and go looking for a corkscrew.

"This place is still new to me. I think the opener is in that drawer there," she coaches, pointing with her chin, as her hands are full of food. Something I like to see.

I open the drawer she's directed me to and find the corkscrew. I take it out and open the wine. I find two glasses and half-fill them.

Again, I find my gaze straying to her, as she puts food away, that little pucker between her eyebrows. She's lost in thought about something.

I step over to the couch to take my jacket off. It's warm in here.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask her.

She glances over at me. "How little I know you."

_Au, contrair, Miss Steele._ "You know me better than anyone," I tell her.

"I don't think that's true," she says, and if I'm not mistaken, there's a hint of bitterness in her voice.

"It is, Anastasia. I'm a very, very private person." If only she knew how much I've shared with her, compared to how little I share with everyone else.

I pick up a wine glass and pass it to her.

"Cheers."

"Cheers," she returns, and takes a sip as I slip the bottle into the still-very-empty fridge.

As I turn, shutting the refrigerator door, I watch her busy herself with some of the ingredients atop the island. She looks absolutely effortless, and though I've never cooked a thing in my life, I ask if I can help.

"No, it's fine," she says, "Sit."

"I'd like to help," I push, and I realize, with a frisson of shock, that I actually do. I've always hated cooking, but there's something about watching Ana in the kitchen that makes me want to come alongside her and participate.

"You can chop the vegetables," she offers.

"I don't cook," I warn her, eyeing the knife she holds out to me. Oh, here we go. Watch me chop off a finger.

"I imagine you don't need to." She pulls out a board and places it in front of me. She piles a couple red peppers on it. I stare at the complex vegetables. How do I begin to chop these things?

"You've never chopped a vegetable?" she asks after a moment.

"No."

She leers at me.

"Are you smirking at me?"

"It appears this is something that I can do and you can't," she says, "Let's face it, Christian, I think this is a first. Here, I'll show you."

She steps closer, brushing up against me, her bare arm against mine, exposed by the rolled up sleeves of my shirt.

"Like this," she instructs. I watch her slice the top off the pepper, and pull out a ton of tiny little seeds. Boy, what a nuisance. Most of them come out in one big chunk, though.

"Looks simple enough," I say once she's sliced the remaining part of the pepper into matchsticks.

"You shouldn't have any trouble with it," she mumbles.

I stare at her for a moment, and then turn toward the board, to start on the next pepper. Meticulously, I remove the top as she had, but in the process, I slice the gathering of seeds in half, and they go everywhere. Damn. It takes me a couple minutes to scoop the escaped seeds out and set them aside.

Once that's done, I start to slice them, careful to keep them uniform, but mostly avoiding cutting the tips of my fingers off.

As I start, she slips past, her hip skating against me. I still when it happens, trying to calm the raging hormones inside me.

As she moves about the kitchen, working on the chicken I think, she continues to brush against me with various parts of her body: her hands, her back, her breasts...

"I know what you're doing, Anastasia," I say at last, my voice roughened by lust. I'm trying to focus on this damned pepper, which I'm not even halfway through yet, and she keeps distracting me.

"I think it's called cooking," she says, acting all innocent, batting her eyelashes at me.

_Oh, you minx._

She comes to stand beside me with another knife, chopping up garlic, shallots and French beans in quick, efficient succession. Meanwhile, I'm just finishing up the first pepper.

"You're quite good at this," I tell her, pulling the third pepper toward me.

"Chopping?" She flutters her lashes at me. "Years of practice." And just when I'm not expecting it, she brushes her delectable behind against me. I can't help but freeze, my cock twitching.

_Simmer down, boy._

"If you do that again, Anastasia, I am going to take you on the kitchen floor," I warn her. I've had about enough. My blood is pumping double time through my veins and I've gone hard and soft again enough times to make me insane.

"You'll have to beg me first," she says, casually.

_Oh ho ho. I see. This is a game._

"Is that a challenge?"

"Maybe."

I put down my knife and move over to her, where she stands in front of the stove. I lean toward and past her, shutting off the gas. The oil, which was spitting and hissing in the pan, goes quiet.

"I think we'll eat later. Put the chicken in the fridge."

She regards me for an instant, barely, and then picks up the bowl, placing a plate on top of it. I don't miss that her hands are shaking. Mine are too.

She puts it in the fridge and shuts the door.

"So you're going to beg?" she asks, turning to me, staring straight into my eyes. Only Anastasia can look like a seductress, and totally coy, in the same expression. It's arousing.

"No, Anastasia." I shake my head. "No begging."

Not once have I caved to another woman's actions, except for when I'm with Anastasia. This is what I mean about having no control around her. Things hardly ever go my way, and the strange thing is that I'm okay with it. More than okay. I find myself enjoying it a lot of the time.

It could also have something to do with the fact that she's simply irresistible.

I grip her hips now, dragging her toward me. In an instant, her hands are in my hair and our mouths meld. I shove her up against the fridge, noting the rattle of bottles inside, and then my tongue finds hers. Hers meets mine with fervor, battling for dominance. She moans against my mouth as I pull on her hair, yanking her head back slightly.

"What do you want, Anastasia?" I whisper.

"You."

"Where?"

"Bed."

Part of me was hoping she'd say here, on the floor, or against the fridge, but then, her bedroom is only a few steps away. I break the kiss, stooping to lift her into my arms, and turn, heading for the bedroom.

Beside the bed, I set her down and turn on the lamp. I glance around the room. All the furniture is the same as it was in the last apartment, just in varying positions. I cross to the window and pull the cream curtains shut.

Languidly, I turn to face her.

"Now what?"

.

**Oh, I am vicious leaving it at that! Until next time, my lovelies! Thank you so much for your continued devotion through this time. I truly want to sincerely apologize for taking so, inexusably long to update. I'm just thankful so many of you have stuck around and waited so patiently. I honestly only got two reviews over the last couple of months asking me to update soon. I am so grateful for that.**

**I'm even more grateful for your reviews and favorites and follows! Thank you so much!**

**I have so much fun writing from Christian's POV!**

**Until next time, my loves! xoxo**


	39. Chapter 39

**Friday, June 10****th**** 2011**

**.**

"Make love to me."

"How?" I ask her. I'm already rock hard.

She stares at me.

"You have to tell me, baby," I urge her.

"Undress me," she finally instructs. _With pleasure._

I smile at her, hooking my finger into the front of her shirt, tugging her a few steps toward me.

"Good girl." Slowly, I begin to unbutton her shirt.

In measured movements, so I see it coming I think, she puts her hands on my arms, so that she doesn't lose her balance. This is okay. Arms are safe, for some unknown reason.

The last button released, I push the shirt over her shoulders, and it falls to the floor. She stands there in front of me, in her lacy bra, in all of her alabaster, smooth skinned glory. I am one lucky man. How I've missed this.

Next, I unbutton her jeans and undo the zipper.

"Tell me what you want, Anastasia."

My breaths are coming faster now, as I expose more and more of her body to me. A body I've gone too long without.

"Kiss me from here to here," she pants, trailing a finger from her ear to her throat.

Reaching forward, I brush her hair back, over her shoulder and do as she says, taking my sweet time, leaving gentle, open mouthed kisses from the base of her ear, down the side of her neck, and back up again.

"My jeans and panties," she says, and I can't help but grin. Her commands are coming more quickly, more confidently. I wonder if it's because she's becoming braver in her aroused state.

I drop to my knees in front of her, worshiping her like the goddess she is.

In one swift move, I pull her jeans and panties to her ankles. Carefully, she steps out of the flats she's wearing, easing her feet through the leg holes, so that she's left towering above me only in her bra.

Oh, what a sight to see. I am basking in this experience. To give her all of the power makes me feel alive and wonderful. Not in the way giving all the power felt when I was with Elena. This is different. This is... More.

I stay there, on my knees in front of her, staring up at her, waiting for her next command.

"What now, Anastasia?" I ask.

"Kiss me," she breathes.

"Where?" I ask, though I think I know.

"You know where," she says, confirming my thoughts.

"Where?" I ask again. She has to beg for it. I told her she had to be specific, and I'm holding to that.

Clearly embarrassed, her cheeks flaming, she points at the spot between her legs, the promised land.

I grin, holding nothing back. I watch her close her eyes, and I can't tell if she's abashed or turned on.

"Oh, with pleasure," I tell her, chuckling softly.

Leaning in, I inhale the sweet, musky smell of her arousal. I plant a quick kiss, and then open my mouth to unleash my tongue on that succulent, pink wet flesh of hers. She's already swollen with arousal, and so it's easy to find her clitoris, erect and standing at attention.

She groans, weaving her hands into my hair, nails scraping against my scalp.

I keep going, hands on her hips, holding her steady, circling her clitoris with the tip of my tongue, sweeping it around and around, faster and faster.

"Christian, please," she gasps after awhile.

"Please what, Anastasia?" I ask, stopping only to speak.

"Make love to me."

"I am," I whisper, blowing against her overheated, damp thighs.

"No, I want you inside me," she insists.

"Are you sure?"

"Please."

I continue my ministrations, bringing her closer to the edge. I'd really like to make her come like this, I love making her come like this, but she's the one in charge.

She moans loudly. "Christian," she pants, "Please."

Reluctantly, I force myself to stop and stand. I stare at her for a moment or two, admiring her face, flushed with desire.

"Well?"

"Well what?" she asks, still breathing hard, staring at me with such an expression it makes me weak in the knees. Searching, wanting, needing... Begging.

"I'm still dressed."

For a moment she only stares at me, but then she reaches for my shirt.

"Oh no," I chide, forcing down the panic.

She looks taken aback for a second, but not for long. Resolve dawns in her eyes, and she drops to her knees in front of me. Oh shit. Is she going to do what I think she's going to do? Oh, please, Ana, do what I think you're going to do...

She pops the button on my jeans and drags the zipper of my fly down with shaking hands, then pulls my jeans and boxers down all at once.

My cock bounds free to meet her, a salute almost.

I stare at her, kneeling in front of me wearing only her bra, in absolute and utter amazement. I can't believe I've gotten her back, I can't believe she's mine, that she is here with me and hasn't sent me away. In all her gorgeous, heart stopping glory she's here with me. Taking control. Despite her innocent facade, she's an unstoppable seductress underneath, and I adore every fucking ounce of it.

She glances up at me, through her lashes, and _fuck me_ that stare is hot.

I shake my pants off and she grips my dick with one hand, squeezing tightly, running it down the shaft with just the exact amount of pressure.

I groan, my breath hissing through my teeth, which I suddenly realized are clenched. Fuck, I've forgotten how good this is. How had I forgotten?

Then her mouth is on me, and she's sucking hard.

"Ahh, Ana... Whoa, gently," I warn her. Fuck, I'm like a fifteen-year-old boy. If she keeps going on like this, I'll come in her mouth in a matter of thirty seconds, maybe.

I cradle her head in my hands, closing my eyes, trying hard to leave the control up to her, and not fuck her mouth how I'd like.

I feel her wrap her lips around her teeth now, and sucking harder than before.

"Fuck," I hiss at the sensation it spurs in me. Like fire and ice in one, the intensity of both. She keeps going, swirling her tongue around the tip, lighting me up like a live wire when she does.

"Ana, that's enough," I say, "No more."

She doesn't seem to hear me, or if she has, she's ignoring me. She keeps going.

Oh, shit, I'm close.

"Ana, you've made your point," I growl, jaw clenched. _Don't come, Grey. Don't do it. Not yet. Not when you haven't even made it to the best part. _"I do not want to come in your mouth."

Before, my orgasms were something I could control, almost as if I could will them to, or not to, happen. But around Ana, my control is in an entirely different realm. It's non-existant. _Especially_ when it comes to orgasms.

She swirls her tongue around my tip one more time, and I grip her by the shoulders, hauling her to her feet. I push her back a couple feet and throw her on the bed. I rip my shirt over my head and grab the condom from my jeans pocket-I packed a couple this morning, just in case, thinking ahead. I didn't know for sure if she'd been remembering her pill, so I figured I'd be prepared. Good thing I was.

"Take your bra off." My breaths come in puffs.

She sits up and reaches around back to unhook it. She drags the straps down her arms and pulls the cups away from her chest, revealing herself to me. Holy hell. She is the most perfect specimen I have ever seen.

"Lie down. I want to look at you." She eases herself onto her back, staring up at me, watching me roll the condom on. She is delicious.

I run my tongue over my lips. "You are a fine sight, Anastasia Steele," I tell her, climbing over top of her, kissing each breast and nipple as I go. I mean to only do it once, but they feel so good against my lips, in my mouth, that I focus my attention on each of them in turn, for a good long moment.

She moans and squirms underneath me, slave to my actions.

"Christian, please," she whimpers.

"Please what?"

"I want you inside me," she begs.

"Do you now?" I ask her.

"Please."

Well, as luck would have it, I want inside her too. I rear up, eyes on hers, and ease her legs apart with mine. Grey eyes to blue, I push into her, ever so slowly, tortuously slow, feeling every single inch of her surround me, every drop of arousal, every muscle clenching.

She squeezes her eyes shut, chin tipping up slightly as I fill her. Her hips shift up to meet mine, and she groans loudly. Gently and at the same exact pace I pull all the way out and then push very slowly back in again. My teeth are clenched. I want to relish this, just for a minute: me, and her, and the simple act of coming together again after far too long apart.

She braids her fingers through my hair, and I repeat it once more: in... And out...

"Faster, Christian," she gasps, "Faster... Please."

Oh, look at that. Begging. Whining and everything.

Feeling on top of the world, I gaze down at her. I crush my lips to hers, and then I really begin to pound into her. And as soon as I begin, I know, I _know _it's not going to last long, but that's okay, because we have later tonight, and tomorrow morning, and the next night...

I feel her begin to tense beneath me, her muscles spasming around me.

"Come on, baby. Give it to me."

As soon as the words leave my mouth, she comes-miraculously and gloriously falling apart around me. Her orgasm, as she clamps around me, triggers my own.

I fall, twisting, spinning, into a mind-numbing orgasm, one of such great magnitude, I don't know if it's ever been so good.

"Ana! Oh fuck, Ana!" I cry, and completely worn, I collapse on top of her, burying my face in her neck, breathing her in, in huge, gasping mouthfuls of air.

In a few moments, clarity will return, I will regain some strength. But for now, I stay where I am.

.

I prop myself up on my elbows, holding Ana's hands by her head so that she can't touch me, and brush my nose against hers, softly, tenderly.

I feel absolutely at peace, blissful in this afterglow.

As I pull out of her, I kiss her on the mouth softly.

"I've missed this."

"Me too," she breathes.

I take her chin in my fingers and deliver a harder, more passionate kiss. I pour everything I can into it, all the songs on the iPad, all the dreams, all the feelings I can't express.

"Don't leave me again," I beg her, searching her eyes for any inkling that it might happen again, that she might walk away again. How can I know she won't, when she promised she wouldn't last time, but did it anyway? How can I know?

She means so much to me, I can't ever live without her.

"Okay," she breathes simply, and her lips turn up in a beautiful smile.

My answering smile radiates from my face. God, she's wonderful.

"Thank you for the iPad," she says.

"You are most welcome, Anastasia."

"What's your favorite song on there?" she ponders aloud.

"Now, that would be telling," I tease, beaming. "Come cook me some food, wench. I'm famished." I sit up, pulling her with me.

"Wench?" she asks, giggling.

"Wench," I respond, that giggle ringing in my ears. "Food, now, please."

"Since you ask so nicely, sire, I'll get right on it," she replies.

As she turns to get out of bed, she knocks her pillow askew. It takes me a second, but as a reach for it, I realize it's the deflated helicopter balloon I sent with the champagne a few weeks ago. I turn my eyes on her, confused.

"That's my balloon," she says, standing now, reaching for her robe. She swaths herself in it, tying the sash tight around her tiny waist.

"In your bed?"

"Yes," she says, blushing. "It's been keeping me company."

"Lucky _Charlie Tango_."

"My balloon," she repeats, turns on her heel and exits her bedroom.

I'm left grinning like an idiot in her bed.

.

My wench can cook.

"This is good," I compliment her after my first tentative taste, digging in for a bigger bite.

We're eating chicken stir fry and noodles in little white china bowls. We're drinking (chilled) Pinot Grigio, and I've turned the Buena Vista Social Club on for background noise.

I sit leaning against the couch, hair a disaster, in my jeans and shirt. Ana sits beside me, cross-legged, in her robe, chowing down hungrily. It sends me to the moon to see her eating so well.

"I usually do all the cooking," she tells me, "Kate isn't a great cook."

"Did your mother teach you?" I inquire.

"Not really," she says, scoffing a laugh. "By the time I was interested in learning how to, my mom was living with Husband Number Three in Mansfield, Texas. And Ray, well, we would've lived on toast and takeout if it weren't for me."

I watch her for a moment, curious. It seems strange to have left her mother so young, to live with her stepfather.

"Why didn't you stay in Texas with your mom?"

I remember asking this once before, but I never really got an answer to it.

"Her husband, Steve, and I... We didn't get along. And I missed Ray. Her marriage to Steve didn't last long. She came to her senses, I think. She never talks about him." She's quiet now, and I think she feels badly for her mother.

"So you stayed in Washington with your stepfather," I say.

"I lived very briefly in Texas. Then went back to Ray," she explains.

"Sounds like you looked after him." The man adores her.

"I suppose," she says, shrugging.

"You're used to taking care of people." Something about the realization throws me off, makes me cautious. Does that mean she'll want to take care of me? Nobody takes care of me.

She glances at me. "What is it?" she asks, in reference to the comment I must have said too sharply. Or maybe it's my eyes, which I can feel clouding over with apprehension.

"I want to take care of you," I admit softly, those emotions I'm so unfamiliar with welling up inside. They're warm and soft and tender, but they still don't sit well. I'm used to extreme emotions-anger, lust... I'm not used to this strange, floaty, easy-going feeling. It's different from playfulness; it's different from peace. It's a combination of the two, wrapped up with a couple other things.

"I've noticed," she breathes, "You just go about it in a strange way."

I feel myself frown. "It's the only way I know how."

"I'm still mad at you for buying SIP," she says.

I can't help but grin at her. "I know, but you being mad, baby, wouldn't stop me."

"What am I going to say to my work colleagues, to Jack?" she asks me.

_Jack._ And here we were, having a grand old time. Why'd she have to bring that scum up?

"That fucker better watch himself."

"Christian!" she chides, "He's my boss."

I press my lips together. Truth be told, I don't think him being her boss would stop him.

"Don't tell them."

"Don't tell them what?"

"That I own it," I elaborate, "The heads of agreement was signed yesterday. The news is embargoed for four weeks while the management at SIP makes some changes."

"Oh." Now she looks worried. "Will I be out of a job?"

"I sincerely doubt it." I try to hide my smile, but I don't think I succeed. If I have anything to do with it, she will not lose her job. In fact, if I have anything to do with it, she'll go as high up in the ranks as she can go.

Her expression falls now, and she scowls at me. "If I leave and find another job, will you buy that company, too?"

"You're not thinking of leaving, are you?" I ask, suddenly wary.

"Possibly. I'm not sure you've given me a great deal of choice," she says.

"Yes, I will buy that company, too," I say, making my choice. If that's what it takes to keep her safe, I'll buy all the companies in Seattle.

Her frown deepens.

"Don't you think you're being a tad overprotective?" she implores.

"Yes. I am fully aware of how this looks."

"Paging Dr. Flynn," she mumbles under her breath.

I put down my bowl and stare at her without expression. She exhales softly and stands, reaching for my empty dish.

"Would you like dessert?" she offers.

"Now you're talking!" I grin at her suggestively.

"Not me. We have ice cream. Vanilla." She pauses and giggles.

"Really?" My grin widens as the possibilities come filtering in. "I think we could do something with that."

She only stares at me, cautious and skeptical.

I get to my feet.

"Can I stay?" I ask her.

"What do you mean?"

"The night," I elaborate.

"I assumed that you would," she confesses.

"Good. Where's the ice cream?"


	40. Chapter 40

**Friday, June 10****th**** 2011**

**.**

In her bedroom once more, I strip the duvet and pillows from the bed, tossing them nearby, on the floor.

"You have a change of sheets, don't you?" I ask her. I really don't feel like stalling this out to go and purchase her a second pair of sheets. The ice cream, from where it sits on her bedside table, is nearly the exact consistency I'm looking for, and if I have to put it in the freezer again, it'll be ruined.

She nods.

I hold up the deflated _Charlie Tango_ balloon.

"Don't mess with my balloon," she says in warning.

I half-smile in amusement at the attempted malice in her voice. She's like a kitten with its claws out-trying to look fierce, but failing miserably.

"Wouldn't dream of it, baby," I assure her, "But I do want to mess with you and these sheets. I want to tie you up."

I see the surprise in her eyes, and the excitement. It turns me on. She still trusts me.

"Okay," she breathes.

"Just your hands," I add, "To the bed. I need you still."

For a second, I allow the images of what I'm going to do to her flit through my mind... Sweet, slippery Ana...

"Okay."

I walk over to her now, ready to get started, spurred on by the images playing in my mind.

"We'll use this." I undo the bow and ease the sash of her robe through the belt loops until it comes loose. The garment falls open, revealing just a teasing glimpse of that lush, perfect body to me. I'm erect in a millisecond.

I admire her for a moment, and then reach forward to push the robe off her shoulders. It puddles at her feet, and there she stands: completely bare, in front of me. She looks at me with eyes so big and clear and innocent and trusting...  
I reach up to stroke her cheek with my knuckles, which has flushed a beautiful baby pink.

I can't believe this fabulous woman is mine. I can't believe she's accepted me back. I can't believe any of it. I'm never going to let her go now.

I kiss her on the mouth, chastely.

"Lie on the bed, faceup," I instruct her.

She walks over to the bed and eases herself onto her back atop the mattress. In the muted light cast from the energy-saving bulb in her lamp, her curves are accentuated just so. She looks absolutely marvelous, and I take another minute to just look at her.

"I could look at you all day, Anastasia." I climb onto the bed, up over her, and sit straddling her hips, holding my weight on my shins.

"Arms above your head."

She lifts them immediately and I loop the end of the sash around her left wrist, tying it fast. I weave the other end through the metal bars on her headboard and, making sure her left arm is stretched above her, I fasten her other wrist.

Just this simple act has me completely at ease-but standing at attention too. Staring down at her, trussed up and at my mercy, I realize that she can't touch me, she can't take me off guard. I'm completely in control now, and tranquility seeps through my veins like warm maple syrup.

This truly is my happy place.

I climb off the bed and bend over her to kiss her. She looks beautiful, tied to that bed of hers, silken skin glowing in the lamplight, breasts rising and falling with each of her breaths, eyes on me and only me...

I disrobe quickly, thankful that I didn't bother pulling my boxers back on again before we ate, and then stride to the foot of her bed. Taking her ankles in my hands, I tug her so that her entire body is flexed and completely immobile.

"That's better."

Heading back over to the bedside table, I pick up the ice cream container and straddle her once again. Slowly, slowly, to tease her, I pull the lid off and dip the spoon inside. It barely gives under the metal, which I'm a tad surprised at. I haven't taken enough time. What can I say? I'm anxious to get started.

"Hmm... It's still quite hard." I scoop out a small spoonful and eat it, the creaminess of the vanilla melting on my tongue, slipping down my throat. It's cold and scrumptious. "Delicious," I muse, licking my lips, but it would taste even better off her body. "Amazing how good plain old vanilla can taste," I add, staring down at her. The words have a double meaning, and I think she catches on. "Want some?"

She nods, coy.

I dig out another spoonful and hold the spoon near her mouth. When she opens her lips, I pop the spoon in my own.

"This is too good to share," I tease, grinning.

"Hey," she whines.

"Why, Miss Steele, do you like your vanilla?" I goad her.

"Yes," she snaps, and bucks her hips.

I laugh as I bounce, thrown off balance a tad by her testiness.

"Getting feisty, are we? I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Ice cream," she says, pleads, begs.

"Well, as you've pleased me so much today, Miss Steele." This time, when I offer her the spoon once more, I let her eat the ice cream. The sight is so satisfactory that I feed her two more mouthfuls.

"Hmm, well, this is one way to ensure you eat," I observe, "Force-feed you. I could get used to this."

I offer her another spoonful, but this time she presses her lips together and shakes her head at me. This is what I've been waiting for, her refusal.

I watch the ice cream puddle in the spoon, melting, and drip onto her throat. I move the spoon down so some of it spills onto her chest. Leaning down, I lap it up with my tongue, tasting more of her skin than the ice cream.

"Mmm. Tastes even better off you, Miss Steele," I murmur.

The bed creaks as she pulls at her ties, and I can tell she's getting worked up. Frankly, so am I. Despite the cold ice cream, this is hot. Really hot.

I drip more ice cream across her chest, onto her breasts, spreading it over eat nipple with the back of the spoon. I watch, fascinated, as her nipples harden against the coolness of it.

"Cold?" I ask her, amused. I stoop to suck and lick the ice cream off her breasts, relishing in her supple, smooth skin against my lips and tongue. I allow myself to get lost on the moment, in her...

I can hear her breaths coming quickly now, panting, and I sit up.

"Want some?"

Before she can answer, I plunge my tongue into her mouth, letting her taste the ice cream on me. After a moment, I pull back to take another scoop of vanilla, skimming it down the center of her body, letting it pool in her navel. God, I love that navel. It's so... Sexy.

"Now," I remind her, "You've done this before." I recall the time in her old bedroom, with the ice and wine. That was good. "You're going to have to stay still, or there will be ice cream all over the bed."

Knowing that it will probably cause her to writhe but going ahead with it anyway-let's see how much control she really has-I stoop to suck each of her nipples into my mouth, firmly.

She does well at first, but as I lick and suckle my way down to her belly button, her hips begin to sway. It begins to seep across her stomach, down over her hip bones, puddling on the sheets beneath her.

Quickly, I move to clean up the mess, eating the ice cream out of her navel, dipping my tongue into and around it.

She moans as I do so, and encouraged, I keep going, moving lower, trailing the ice cream over the crest between her hips, through the bushel of pubic hair, pressing it into her clitoris.

She cries out, loudly, as my cold tongue makes contact with her overheated flesh.

"Hush now," I order gently, cleaning the sticky, gooey ice cream off her clitoris. It melts more quickly here, and I have to work harder, faster.

"Oh... Please... Christian," she begs, high-pitched and full of need.

"I know, baby, I know," I whisper, swirling my tongue faster and faster, the ice cream long gone by now. I feel her body climbing toward its peak, and ease one finger inside her. She's hot, nearly burning compared to the chill of the ice cream. I slip a second finger in alongside the first, reveling in the feeling of her body around me, the cradle it makes.

In slow, measured movements, I ease my fingers in and out of her a few times.

"Just here," I mumble to myself, finding that spongy tissue on the front wall of her vagina, her g-spot. I continue to lick and suckle at her clitoris, bringing her closer and closer to the edge. Her back arches slightly, her legs tensing as I rub at her g-spot faster.

And suddenly, she comes, erupting around me in a shower of bliss.

As she relaxes onto the bed underneath me, recovering from her orgasm, I roll on the second condom and hover over her, easing myself inside her warm, damp depths.

"Oh yes!" I can't help but moan. She feels exquisite, tight and wet, and slightly sticky from the leftover ice cream.

No, _this _is my happy place.

Pulling out of her, I flip her onto her front.

"This way."

I fill her once again, reveling in the act, basking in the way she envelopes me, sheaths me whole.

Stretching up, I untie her hands and pull her back up to my chest, sitting us both up.

I take her breasts in my hands, tugging gently on her nipples, which are still cool from the ice cream, and slightly sticky, too.

She groans, her head falling back onto my shoulder. I burrow my nose against her neck, inhaling the smell of her: freesia, sandalwood, sex and vanilla ice cream.

I flex my hips, pushing myself into her as far as I can go, again and again.

"Do you know how much you mean to me?" I whisper.

"No."

I smile against her throat, curling my fingers around her jaw and neck, to secure her in place. Lies.

"Yes, you do. I'm not going to let you go."

I increase the pace now, harder, faster. Oh fuck, she feels so good. Why does she feel so good? Did the time apart make our bond stronger; had I forgotten how good it was? Maybe it's this storm of new emotions inside me, intensifying everything... _Everything._

Oh god, how could I have let her go? How? How could I have been so moronic?

What if she'd gone off to the photographer, seeking solace? Or the guy from the hardware store?

She groans softly.

"You are mine, Anastasia."

"Yes, yours," she vows, panting.

"I take care of what's mine."

She cries out as I bite down on her ear.

"That's right, baby, I want to hear you," I egg her on. I ease one hand around front, grasping her hip with the other, really slamming into her now.

She cries out again, and I can hear my breathing growing more ragged.

My abs strain as I slam into her relentlessly, the sensation building, building, leaving me more and more without senses, taking me higher, floating...

"Come on, baby," I hear myself growl at her. I can feel her piquing, she's so close and so am I.

Just in time, _just in fucking time,_ she free falls into her orgasm, and I follow in relief.

.

"What I feel for you frightens me," she whispers in the stillness afterwards. We are curled up together, spooning on her sticky sheets.

I freeze, because I've just been thinking the exact same thing.

"Me too, baby," I tell her. I've never felt anything like this, she's taken me to an entirely different realm of emotion. Emotion I've tried so hard to avoid for so many years, and only in the past month or so, have these new feelings begun to surface. Intense, demanding-to-be-felt feelings. Feelings that intensified so much after she left me.

They made me realize that I could never let her leave me again, ever.

And though I don't know exactly what they mean, I do know that Ana is my life. She's saved me from a life of disaster, and emotionless plague. I will forever be grateful for that. She's brought color to my monochromatic life.

"What if you leave me?" she asks.

_As fucking if. _"I'm not going anywhere," I promise, "I don't think I could ever have my fill of you, Anastasia."

She rolls over, staring into my eyes. I fight the urge to flinch away from her, to hide from her. Instead I show her the sincerity, the seriousness, of my words. I do my best to reflect the openness I see in her eyes, back at her.

She kisses me, softly, and I smile at her, tucking a few loosened strands of hair behind her ear.

"I've never felt the way I felt when you left, Anastasia. I would move heaven and earth to avoid feeling like that again."

I was a mess of a man. I debated over my entire existence, I wondered if life was even worth living anymore. I was truly in a dark, dark place. I was angry at first, yes, but the anger crumbled away into despair and a darkness so deep I wondered if I'd ever make it to the other side. I had almost decided that I wouldn't, and then Monday-and the potential to see her again-happened.

I don't realize I'm lost in thought until she kisses me again, her warm, smooth lips breaking me from my reverie.

Suddenly, I remember the party.

"Will you come with me to my father's summer party tomorrow? It's an annual charity thing. I said I'd go."

She smiles. "Of course I'll come."

Her expression suddenly turns stricken.

"What?" I ask her, anxiously.

"Nothing."

"Tell me," I push.

"I have nothing to wear," she admits.

Well, she still has all the things I bought for her back in the sub closet at home... But if she tried to return the Macbook, Blackberry and car to me, how will she feel about me keeping all her clothes?

"Don't be mad," I warn, "but I still have all those clothes for you at home. I am sure there are a couple of dresses in there."

Her lips pucker. "Do you, now?"

"Please don't be angry with me," I beg her as she sits up, swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress.

"I'm not," she assures me, her tone blase and almost casual.

"Where are you going?"

"For a drink. Want something?"

.

**Saturday, June 11****th**** 2011 - 5am**

**.**

Screaming wakes me, very early the next morning. It's shrill and piercing and feminine, and for the first time in a long time, it's not my own.

Disoriented for a moment-I'm not at home-I realize I'm in Ana's bed, and it's her wailing that has woken me.

I sit bolt upright.

Shit! She's having a nightmare.

She tosses herself about on the mattress beside me. "No! No!" she shouts.

"Ana, wake up!" I reach for her, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her, "Jesus, Ana!"

She stops screaming and her eyes flutter open, dazed, confused. She glances around, sees me, shakes her head.

"Baby, are you okay? You were having a bad dream." My heart is pounding in my chest, and I force it to return to normal.

"Oh," she breathes, groggy and still confused.

I sit up, reaching for the lamp and switch it on. Light floods the room, and now that I have a clearer picture of her, she looks pale and desolate.

_Oh, baby. It was only a dream._

"The girl," she finally breathes.

"What is it? What girl?" My voice is soft, gentle.

"There was a girl outside SIP when I left this evening. She looked like me... But not really," she explains.

In an instant, the puzzle pieces click together, and I know. It's Leila. It has to have been. Fuck. I feel the blood drain from my face.

"When was this?" I realize that this was hours ago, and she'll probably be long gone by now. Shit.

"When I left work this evening," Ana says, "Do you know who she is?"

_She looked like me... But not really._ "Yes," I say, and rake a hand through my hair, exasperated. The skin, the body type, the _hair-_always the hair. But the eyes. The eyes are what makes Anastasia so different, so striking, so other. Their depth, their innocence, their sincerity...

"Who?" she asks.

I feel my lips press together. I do not want to tell her. I do not want to involve her in this. This should be none of her concern.

"Who?" she repeats, pressingly.

"It's Leila," I relent.

Ana's eyes widen, just slightly, and she swallows hard.

_Fuck it. We missed our chance. Dammit, Leila!_

The exasperation flares to anger. I can't believe it, after we'd been so careful, on such high-alert. How the hell has she slipped past our radars? How the _fuck _did she find out where Ana works? What if she tries something? She's mentally unstable; there's no telling what she might do. If anything happened to Anastasia on my watch...

"The girl who put 'Toxic' on your iPod?" she clarifies now.

I turn my attention to her face now. _God, I cannot let anything happen to you... _"Yes. Did she say anything?"

"She said, 'What do you have that I don't have?' and when I asked who she was, she said, 'Nobody.'"

My eyes clamp shut as guilt floods my chest. How could I have been so callous with her? How could I have disregarded her feelings so wholly? It's me who's done this to her, who has made her feel this way about herself, isn't it?

I recall her face when I broke things off, her tears, her protests. And how I shut her down, with no regard for how she would take it. Because I didn't care. I never fucking cared. About anyone or anything-until Ana...

Checking the clock on the bedside table, it reads 5:03. I climb out of bed and drag on my jeans, heading into the front room to call Welch.

"'Lo?" he answers on the third ring. His voice is muffled and still cloudy with sleep.

"Welch, it's Grey. I apologize for waking you so early on a Saturday, but it's important."

"What is it?" Immediately he sounds marginally more alert.

"It's about Leila Williams. Anastasia saw her yesterday. Leila approached her. I think she could be a real danger, Welch. She could be psychotic; I'm worried she might hurt Ana."

"Approached her?"

"Yes, outside SIP, yesterday." Ana comes out, wearing only my shirt.

"What time?"

"Early evening," I tell him. My gaze follows her as she moves into the kitchen.

"What time, exactly?" Welch demands, in high-efficiency mode. I hear a door shut, and then he powers up his computer.

"What time, exactly?" I repeat to Ana.

"About ten to six?" she says.

"About ten to six," I relay to Welch, who I can now hear clacking at the keyboard on the other end.

"How did she find her?" he asks, a rhetorical question.

"Find out how," I demand.

"You think she'd harm Anastasia?"

"Yes," I say earnestly, "I wouldn't have said so, but then I wouldn't have thought she could do this." I shut my eyes again, at the onslaught of emotion the words bring. Damn, we need to find her. Before she can hurt herself again, or Anastasia! Briefly, the thought crosses that she could be after me, but that apprehension pales hugely in comparison to thinking about something happening to Ana.

"Christian, when we find her, do you think she'll come peacefully?"

"I don't know how that will go down," I admit.

"Make sure Anastasia knows that she could be in danger. She needs to be aware of this," Welch says.

"Yes, I'll talk to her."

"Psychotic breaks are a serious thing, Grey. People lose touch with reality, they can become homicidal, or suicidal, as you know, and she's already at risk from last time..."

"Yes, I know. Follow it up and let me know. Just find her, Welch-she's in trouble. Find her."

I press the 'end' button and turn to Anastasia, who is standing at the kitchen island, regarding me intently, with concern.

_Oh, Ana, baby. Please don't look at me like that. It's you who I need to be concerned about._

"Do you want some tea?" she asks me.

Suddenly I see her, in the dim light of morning, wearing only my shirt, nothing on underneath... And I need to be near her. The lust comes suddenly, lighting through my veins like fire, making my blood hum.

"Actually, I'd like to go back to bed."

"Well, I need some tea," she insists. "Would you like to join me for a cup?"

Frustrated, I run a hand through my hair, forcing my insane need for sex, now, now, now aside. I don't know what it is, but the need to be near her, inside her, is unwarrantable. I need to know that she's here, and I'm here, and we're safe, we're okay.

"Yes, please," I finally agree, irritation seeping through, into my voice. Talk about sexually frustrated.

She plunks the kettle on the stove to boil, and gathers teacups and teapot.

I find myself watching her, tracking every move, unbelievably anxious.

It's not enough to talk to her everyday, to know that she's safe. This was what I was so terrified of in the first place-that Leila would approach Anastasia, or possibly want to harm her in some way. I need Anastasia with me at all times, living with me possibly, or have security on her-possibly both. Probably both.

Oh, fuck that stupid husband of Leila's and all his idiotic tendencies! Why didn't he see this coming, why didn't he get her help before the shit hit the fan like this?

"What is it?" Ana asks now, gently, her eyes on mine.

I shake my head at her. This is none of her business, or her concern. She does not need to worry herself with this.

"You're not going to tell me?" She says it in such a way that I think it offends her.

I exhale and shut my eyes. "No."

"Why?"

"Because it shouldn't concern you," I explain, "I don't want you tangled up in this."

"It shouldn't concern me," she argues, "but it does. She found me and accosted me outside my office. How does she know about me? How does she know where I work? I think I have a right to know what's going on."

Dammit, she's right. All of the things she's said are true, but I don't want her involved! The less she knows, the safer she is... I don't want her worried and anxious. It kills me to know that I've promised to protect her, that all I want to do is protect her, and now all of that is in fucking jeopardy! Because I wasn't there at the apartment when she arrived, because she cut her wrist in front of Gail, demanding to see me.

Would it have been different if I'd been there? Would I have been able to talk her down, and get her the proper help? Would she have felt the same need to escape if I'd been the one to take her to the hospital?

"Please?"

I feel my mouth flatten into a line, and I roll my eyes at her, realizing that she's not going to give up until I give her some information. Stubborn woman.

"Okay," I relent, "I have no idea how she found you. Maybe the photograph of us in Portland, I don't know." I sigh. Why the fuck don't I know? I should know. I should have been more attentive!

I pace the kitchen a few times, while she pours the boiled water into the teapot to steep with the tea bags.

"While I was with you in Georgia, Leila turned up at my apartment unannounced and made a scene in front of Gail." She doesn't need to know all the gory details.

"Gail?" Ana asks.

"Mrs. Jones," I clarify.

"What do you mean, 'made a scene'?" she pushes.

I glare at her. Damn her curiosity. She does not need to know this!

"Tell me," she commands, "You're keeping something back."

Her words take me off guard. She thinks I'm lying to her?

"Ana, I..."

"Please?"

I sigh, giving in, defeated. "She made a haphazard attempt to open a vein," I admit.

"Oh no!" Anastasia sounds appalled, and heartbroken.

"Gail got her to hospital," I continue, "But Leila discharged herself before I could get there. The shrink who saw her called it a typical cry for help. He didn't believe her to be truly at risk-one step from suicidal ideation, he called it. But I'm not convinced. I've been trying to track her down since then to get her some help."

"Did she say anything to Mrs. Jones?"

_Just that she wanted to talk to me..._ Godammit this is really all my fault. What do you want, Leila? What can I do for you?

"Not much," I finally tell Ana.

Surprisingly, she doesn't push it. She turns her back to me and pours tea into cups, quiet.

"You can't find her?" she finally says, "What about her family?"

"They don't know where she is," I tell her, "Neither does her husband." Only where she _might _be. For a price. Fucking scum.

"Husband?" Ana perks up.

"Yes, she's been married for about two years." How is this relevant?

"So she was with you while she was married?" she asks, appalled.

"No!" _Christ!_ "Good God, no. She was with me nearly three years ago. Then she left and married this guy shortly afterward."

I remember her e-mail to me after the wedding... How happy she seemed... And up until six or seven months ago, that's all I saw in those e-mails, all she expressed. She never mentioned wanting to see me again, never mentioned that she was struggling with any sort of depression or anxiety. Why didn't she tell me? I might have been able to help her sooner. This might not have even happened, if she'd communicated with me.

"So why is she trying to get your attention now?"

I shake my head. "I don't know. All I've managed to find out is that she ran out on her husband about four months ago." Only three months after her last e-mail to me, which had alluded a short getaway to the mountains they'd gone on... Happy. Satisfied. Content. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing off.

"Let me get this straight," Ana says, and I force my attention back to her. "She hasn't been your submissive for three years?"

"About two and a half years," I concede.

"And she wanted more."

"Yes."

"But you didn't?"

"You know this."

"So she left you."

"Yes."

"So why is she coming to you now?"

As we speak, going over what I thought we already knew, a thought occurs.

_More._

I've never wanted more... Until Anastasia.

"_What do you have that I don't?"_ The words she had spoken to Anastasia outside SIP run through my head.

"I don't know," I tell Ana. I'm not going to give her theories. Not when nothing is concrete.

"But you suspect..." she pushes.

Oh for the love of God, could she give it a rest?

"I suspect it has something to do with you... Why didn't you tell me yesterday?" If she had told me sooner, maybe we could have caught up with Leila. She'd be in good care by now, getting the help she needs... Medicated, receiving therapy, contained, no longer a danger to not only herself, but to Anastasia as well.

"I forgot about her," Ana says, shrugging apologetically, "You know, drinks after work, at the end of my first week. You turning up at the bar and your... Testosterone rush with Jack, and then we were here. It slipped my mind. You have a habit of making me forget things."

For the first time this morning, humor touches me.

"Testosterone rush?"

"Yes." Her eyes narrow. "The pissing contest."

Sweeping me out from under my feet, the lust is back, exploding through me, demanding not to be ignored, but to be felt.

"I'll show you a testosterone rush."

"Wouldn't you rather have a cup of tea?" she asks.

"No, Anastasia, I wouldn't," I say, staring into her eyes, willing the feelings I'm feeling to be reflected back at me.

I want her. Badly. To know that she's here, and I'm here, and that she's safe.

I see it, that glimmer in her eyes-the darkening of her irises, the dilating of her pupils...

"Forget about her. Come," I beckon, offering my hand. She takes it, and I pull her into the bedroom.

.

The first thing I feel when I wake is the warmth of Ana, pressed up against me. Still floating between sleep, I need only focus on how good it feels-how soft her skin feels against me, how comfortable I am, how I can feel her breasts pressed to my side, and the scent of her surrounding me, swirling in my head, a dream.

Awareness breaks through the cloud of sleep, and as I open my eyes, I find her watching me.

Before peaceful, immediately I am wary. She looks guilty, as if she's been... Up to something.

"Hi," she greets me, grinning.

"Hi," I respond, suspicious, "What are you doing?"

"Looking at you."

I jump internally when I feel her fingers on my belly, tracing the line of hair that leads down into my pants. Automatically, on reflex, I grasp her hand, stopping her.

I roll, pinioning her beneath me, keeping her hands in mine, pressing them into the mattress by her head. I feel safer like this, on top, in charge, with her trapped beneath me. I don't know what she was up to, but if she had the face to look guilty, then it must have been something...

I'm aware that I'm hard. Did I wake up with an erection, or did it come on in response to seeing her, feeling her, lying naked next to me? Or her touch?

I lean down, brushing my nose along the length of hers.

"I think you're up to no good, Miss Steele."

"I like being up to no good near you," she murmurs.

"You do?" I kiss her chastely on the mouth. "Sex or breakfast?" She presses her hips into my cock, and that's answer enough for me. "Good choice," I hum, ducking my face underneath her chin, leaving a trail of kisses all the way down to her breast.

Upon reaching my destination, I take a nipple in my mouth, sucking hard, pinching the other between my fingers.

She moans and writhes beneath me, and I smile against her breast.

"So responsive, Miss Steele."

Every inch of my body is a live wire, as I leave kisses on every part of her skin I can access. I am alive with a need I have never experienced before. Frankly, it scares me. The need is so potent, so demanding. The only thing that seems to sate it is sex, with Ana. And so, not knowing what else to do, or how else to calm the need, I give in, every time.

.

Ana lays sprawled across my front, her face buried in my neck.

I run my hands up and down her back, reveling in its smoothness, it's softness. I am absolutely satiated and calm. This is exactly what I needed to calm the raging storm inside of me. It has been consuming me ever since Leila went missing, ever since I learned she'd tried to kill herself in front of Gail in my apartment, ever since she'd demanded my attention.

She obviously needed my help; why has she run away, where she is unable to get it?

I have never felt compassion for one of my subs before; it was always about lust and games and control. Why now?

Ana moves, disrupting my thoughts.

Automatically, my arms tighten around her, to stop her from going anywhere.

"Where are you going?" I murmur.

"I need to have a shower," she says, wiggling out of my grasp and sitting up on top of me. "Care to join? I need someone to wash my back."

"At your service, Miss Steele."

.

Showered and clean, we dress in Ana's room.

"How often do you work out?"

I glance up to where she stands in front of her chest of drawers, staring at herself in the mirror. She looks dissatisfied and frustrated, twisting her hair this way and that. For now, she's stopped to stare at me.

"Every weekday," I say automatically, doing up my fly.

"What do you do?"

Why is she so curious? "Run, weights, kickboxing." I shrug.

"Kickboxing?"

"Yes, I have a personal trainer, an ex-Olympic contender who teaches me. His name is Claude. He's very good." In fact, he put me on my ass in our most recent spar. "You'd like him." He'd push her, challenge her, something that she needs.

She rotates fully to face me now, as I shrug my shirt over my shoulders and begin to button it.

"What do you mean, I'd like him?"

"You'd like him as a trainer." I've been trying to have Ana start some type of workout regime, but she's, obviously, been a bit stubborn. I really wish she'd agree, so she could build some muscle, some stamina. If and when we go back into the playroom, I want to try some things I've never tried with her-and a couple completely new things I haven't tried with anyone. But if she's going to keep up, she's going to need to develop some strength and endurance.

"Why would I need a personal trainer?" she asks, smirking, teasing, "I have you to keep me fit."

Mind filled with all the possibilities, I walk across the room to her, taking her in my arms. The ideas play behind my eyes like a filmstrip.

"But I want you fit, baby, for what I have in mind. I'll need you to keep up."

As if on cue, her cheeks go red, but she doesn't back down, or look away. A moment passes between us, and I see the lust, the excitement, the curiosity in her eyes.

"You know you want to."

A second later, her face darkens, and not in the good way. Her lips flatten and something in her eyes backs away, closes off.

"What?" I question, suddenly concerned. Does she not want to? Was I wrong? Have I said something that will turn her away? Am I mentioning the playroom too soon?

"Nothing," she says, shaking her head at me. "Okay, I'll meet Claude."

"You will?" I'm sidetracked by her agreement, astounded and pleased. This has come up out of the blue, and make of it what I will about her sudden change in composure, but she's willing to be trained, and the thought makes my insides soar. She'll be strong, and she'll possess fortitude, resilience. She'll be able to hold up beneath my fantasies, and I won't have to be worried that I'm pushing her too far, or that she'll give out in front of me.

In another way, this is moving one step closer to us going back into the playroom.

"Yes, jeez," she scoffs, "It it makes you that happy."

I wind my arms around her, bringing her closer, and kiss her cheek. "You have no idea... So what would you look to do today?" I lean in to nuzzle her ear.

"I'd like to get my hair cut," she says, "and um... I need to bank a check and buy a car."

"Ah," I say. She wants to bank the check I gave her, to buy a new car in the place of the one she tried to give back to me. The very car which sits in the parking lot below, out back. Biting my lip, I reach into my pocket and pull out the A3 key fob.

"It's here," I tell her, uncertain over how she'll react. It's hard to say. She didn't seem so angry at my returning the Macbook and Blackberry... But how will she take the car?

"What do you mean, it's here?" she snaps, and shit, she sounds angry.

"Taylor brought it back yesterday," I explain.

She opens and shuts her mouth twice, seemingly at a loss for words. She looks baffled, outraged, and then-shit-resolved.

I watch her reach around and pull something out of her back pocket. When she produces it to me, I see it's an envelope.

"Here, this is yours," she says.

I'm puzzled at first, but when I get a closer look at the envelope-and see it's one of mine from my office-I realize it's the check.

I raise both hands and take a step back.

"Oh no. That's your money."

"No, it isn't," she argues, "I'd like to buy the car from you."

For fuck's sake, I gave that car to her as a gift! How dare she try to buy it from me? Who does she think I am? I sure as hell don't need the money, and she sure as hell does!

"No, Anastasia," I snap, knowing this isn't the end of the argument if I can help it, "Your money, your car."

"No, Christian. My money, your car. I'll buy it from you," she offers again.

"I gave you that car for your graduation present." I'm speaking through my teeth now.

"If you'd given me a pen-that would be a suitable graduation present. You gave me an Audi."

"Do you really want to argue about this?" My teeth are still clenched.

"No."

"Good-here are the keys." I put them on the chest of drawers.

"That's not what I meant!" she cries, exasperated.

"End of discussion, Anastasia," I order. "Don't push me."

She glares at me for a second, and then, in the next second, she tears the envelope-and my check-in two, then fours. She drops it into the wastebasket.

I just stare at her. Does she really think that'll stop me?

"You are, as ever, challenging, Miss Steele." I turn and head into the other room, pulling out my Blackberry.

I call Andrea.

"Mr. Grey," she answers, efficiently and promptly, even on a Saturday morning.

"Andrea, please deposit twenty-four thousand dollars into Anastasia Steele's bank account." I read off the number, which I have memorized, in case of emergency. Like now, for example.

She walks into the room.

"Twenty-four thousand, sir?" she repeats, a little thrown.

"Yes, twenty-four thousand dollars. Directly."

"Um, certainly, Sir."

"Good."

"It should be through by Monday."

"Monday? Excellent."

"Anything else, Sir?"

"No that's all, Andrea," I answer, and hang up.

I turn to Anastasia. "Deposited in your back account, Monday. Don't play games with me."

.

**This is where it gets exciting... :)  
Who's ready for the gala? Raise your hand if you are!**


	41. Chapter 41

_**As always, I appreciate your feedback, ever so much!**_

_**For the first time, on the last chapter, I received some constructive criticism, which, I admit, has been sticking with me a little. I really want to make Christian as true to the one EL James has created (as I've mentioned before), and after reading that review, I feel like I may have strayed a bit in the last chapter...**_

_**But I also realizing, I'm creating a bit of 'my own' Christian, as well, so I'm trying to decide to let it really affect me or not.**_

_**As such, I AM searching for a new beta. A good while ago, now, my former beta unfortunately had to relieve her duties for personal reasons-if you're reading, I hope you're doing well and things have improved!**_

_**Anyway, if you're interested, please give me a PM.**_

_**The only requirements are grammar naziism-I do realize I make some mistakes despite proofreading a couple times before I post, and it drives me bonkers-and a true understanding of Christian's character. I want you to be able to point out flaws or discrepancies that you see.**_

_**Also, a bit of imagination. Some of those phone conversations really do stump me, and some of the time, I'm wondering if I'm creating an entirely new conversation! Lol.**_

_**ANYWAY. That is all. **_

_**Read on.**_

_**Love you all! **_

_**xoxo**_

_**.**_

**Saturday, June 11****th**** 2011**

**.**

We eat out for breakfast, at a nearby Humpty's. Not as good as IHOP, but that's a cross-town trip.

"I'll get this," Ana says when we're finished, snatching up the tab before I know what she's doing.

I glare at her.

"You have to be quick around here, Grey," she tells me, haughty.

"You're right, I do," I agree bitterly, trying, really trying, to let it go.

"Don't look so cross," she teases and reminds me, "I'm twenty-four thousand dollars richer than I was this morning. I can afford twenty-two dollars and sixty-seven cents for breakfast."

"Thank you." My answer is short, and sour.

"Where to now?" she questions, unbothered.

"You really want your hair cut?" I ask her. I don't know how short she'll go, and I really do like it long...

"Yes, look at it."

"You look lovely to me," I assure her, "You always do."

She blushes and casts her gaze toward her hands, in her lap. "And there's your father's function this evening."

Yes. "Remember, it's black tie." Mmm... Anastasia Steele in a ball gown... Form fitting would be ideal...

"Where is it?"

"At my parents' house. They have a tent. You know, the works."

"What's the charity?" she inquires.

_It could have saved the crack-whore._

I run my hands down my legs, uncomfortable at the thought. Uncomfortable at the thought of her dead, when she could have been saved. Why did no one help her? Why did she not reach out?

I shake the dark thoughts away and focus on the conversation at hand. I do not want to think about my birth mother right now.

"It's a drug rehab program for parents with young kids called Coping Together."

"Sounds like a good cause," she murmurs softly, and I know she's thinking about my childhood.

The thought of her pitying me angers me, makes me uncomfortable, and so I put an end to the topic.

"Come, let's go." I stand and hold out my hand to her. She reaches for me, and we clasp fingers.

Heading out onto the street, I take in a deep breath of coffee and freshly baked bread. It's a beautiful, mild morning-not too hot, but not too cold. Just about perfect. The sun is shining; I can feel the warmth of it.

As I head left, toward 1st Avenue, where Esclava is located, Ana asks, "Where are we going?"

"Surprise," I mutter. Partly because I don't think she'd willingly go to Elena's place of work, and partly because I just want it to be a surprise, plain and simple. Her stylists do good work-it's where I've taken all my submissives-and I know they'll do a good job with Anastasia.

Two blocks later, I lead Anastasia into Esclava. Elena recently renovated the place, and it looks very chique and modern-all white and leather. She did well.

Something about women and their sense for interior design. I'll never understand it.

Greta, who is seated at the reception desk, looks up as the bells chime overhead the door.

"Good morning, Mr. Grey," she greets us, unsurprised by the woman on my arm. If only she knew how different this woman was, how she's changed me, how she's nothing like _any _of the past women I've brought in here.

Nevertheless, despite I have someone with me, she flushes and bats her lashes at me.

"Hello, Greta," I greet her.

"Is this the usual, sir?" she inquires.

"No," I say, suddenly anxious. This is new. I glance over at Ana. "Miss Steele will tell you what she wants."

She turns baleful eyes on me, and my heart stops. Shit. Maybe this was the wrong place to take her. She's undoubtedly thinking about all the rules.

"Why here?" she hisses.

"I own this place, and three more like it." And I know their procedures. I don't mention that I own the salons with Elena. I don't think it would make Anastasia very happy right now.

"You own it?" This obviously surprises her, and honestly, it's a little out of character for me, I have to admit.

"Yes. It's a sideline. Anyway-whatever you want, you can have it here, on the house. All sorts of massage: Swedish, shiatsu; hot stones, reflexology, seaweed baths, facials, all that stuff that women like-everything. It's done here." I wave my hand in the air. It's Elena's job to oversee all that stuff, which I'm glad for. I have no clue about any of it.

"Waxing?" Ana adds, lifting an eyebrow.

I can't help but laugh at her. "Yes, waxing, too. Everywhere," I add in whisper, enjoying watching her squirm and blush. Her gaze flits to Greta, who is gazing back at her expectantly.

"I'd like a haircut please," Ana tells her.

"Certainly, Miss Steele," Greta replies, and checks her screen. "Franco is free in five minutes."

"Franco is fine," I reassure Ana, who looks a tad out of her comfort zone. I don't blame her. She's probably never been in a salon so high class. I'd like to treat her to everything it has to offer; to treat her like the royalty she is.

Suddenly, across the salon, a back door opens, and Elena steps through.

Fuck! I only brought Ana here today because I didn't think Elena would be here! She hardly ever works at this location anymore! What the hell? Today of all fucking days!

She stops to talk to one of the stylists, then turns, eyes cutting immediately to me. She smiles widely, and I don't miss the commanding 'come see me' look in her eyes.

Something in me must still be in debt to her-can I deny that? Elena pretty much saved my life-because I excuse myself and make my way over to her, leaving Ana standing with Greta at the front desk. It's also because I know she'll give me hell later if I don't.

"Christian," she greets me, kissing me on each cheek, hands on my upper arms. "How are you? It's been awhile."

"I'm well, Elena. What are you doing here?"

"Gustavo got the stomach flu, so I had to fill in."

"And how is Isaac?"

"Isaac is fine."

"Good to hear. I see you haven't grown bored with him yet."

Elena grins. "Nearly. How is your... Girl? Anastasia was it?"

"I brought her in with me today," I say, my mood suddenly shifting. All of a sudden, I'm proud to have her with me, to have Elena see her, in all her beauty. The only hesitancy I have is regarding Anastasia meeting Elena.

She turns now, gazing across the salon at her, and smiles at her. Ana smiles softly back, polite, and I can't make out the mood in her eyes, but they look a tad icy.

"She wants a haircut, but I'm a little anxious about it. I don't want it too short."

Elena smiles and holds her hands up. "You know we have the best of the best here, Christian. We'll make her fabulous."

I smile at her. "Of course you will. I wouldn't expect anything less, Elena."

Suddenly, Elena's mood turns somber. "Speaking of submissives, have you heard anything on Leila yet?"

I sigh, feeling my shoulders slump underneath the weight of it all. "She approached Ana last night outside of her work place. I don't know how the hell she found her, but she did. Since then, she's disappeared again and it's driving me insane. If anything ever happened to Anastasia, I don't know what I'd do... And to know she approached her makes it even more worrisome..." As I speak, I hear my voice grow more and more urgent, animated.

Elena, who has been nodding and grimacing, reaches out to rub my arm. She nods in acknowledgment, and I see her offer Ana another smile, softer, reassuring.

"Anastasia's watching us," Elena tells me, "She looks angry."

I glance over and find that, yes, Anastasia is watching us, and yes, she does look rather peeved.

"I'd better go talk to her," I reply.

She nods at me. "Good luck."

"Thanks."

I head back across the salon, toward where Ana has not moved an inch, though her arms are folded across her chest now. Her eyebrow is raised at me, her mouth a thin, straight line.

I frown at her. "Are you okay?"

"Not really." Her voice is frigid, and sharp like a whip. "You didn't want to introduce me?"

What the hell?!

I feel my mouth pop open in shock. "But I thought-"

"For a bright man," she interrupts, "sometimes..." She pauses, "I'd like to go, please."

"Why?" I'm dumbfounded. I knew she didn't necessarily like Elena, but this seems a bit extreme.

"You know why," she says and rolls her eyes at me.

Giving way to anger, which burns through me quickly and suddenly, I glare down at her. What the hell is her problem with Elena? Doesn't she know that the woman saved my life, in all senses of the word? Doesn't she know I'd be in a very different place right now if she hadn't stepped into my life? Perhaps my grave?

"I'm sorry, Ana," I say, not knowing what else _to _say. "I didn't know she'd be here. She's never here. She's opened a new branch at the Bravern Center, and that's where she's normally based. Someone was sick today."

Abruptly, Ana turns and strides toward the door.

_I guess we're leaving._

"We won't need Franco, Greta," I snap and follow after her, catching up just in time to hold the door open for her. Shit. I can feel a fight brewing.

I wait for it, the explosion, as we head back down the sidewalk. Every once in awhile, I glance over at Ana, who walks, gaze fixed on the ground a few steps in front of her, arms folded over her torso, that pucker between her brows. She's obviously deep in thought.

"You used to take your subs there?" she finally spits at me.

Half-relieved to hear her talk, and half-annoyed at her question, I answer, "Some of them, yes."

"Leila?" she pushes.

"Yes."

"The place looks very new," she notes, which I find a strange comment.

"It's been refurbished recently," I explain.

"I see," she says, "So Mrs. Robinson met all your subs."

"Yes."

"Did they know about her?"

"No. None of them did. Only you." Because I never shared fucking anything with any of my subs. Doesn't she understand that?

"But I'm not your sub," she says now, and the words sober something inside me. God, she's mad. What if she leaves me again? What if she decides this is just too much for her? Anxiety-no, fear-grips me.

"No, you most definitely are not."

She stops so suddenly I nearly trip over my own two feet, and revolves to face me.

"Can you see how fucked-up this is?" Her voice is low, menacing, as she stares up at me with hard, icy eyes.

"Yes. I'm sorry," I apologize, truly ashamed. What was I thinking, taking her there? Even if Elena hadn't been working, why would I think it a good idea? Anastasia isn't like any of the other girls I've been with-why should I take her to the place where I took everyone else? Familiarity, knee-jerk reflex?

"I want to get my hair cut, preferably somewhere where you haven't fucked either the staff or the clientele."

That hits a nerve, and I feel myself palpably flinch.

"Now if you'll excuse me," she says.

"You're not running. Are you?" I sound desperate, but fuck, I _am _desperate. She cannot leave me again!

"No," she sighs, exasperated, "I just want a damn haircut. Somewhere I can close my eyes, have someone wash my hair, and forget all about this baggage that accompanies you."

Absently, I run the fingers of my left hand through my hair. "I can have Franco come to the apartment, or your place," I offer.

"She's very attractive."

I blink, surprised by the change in subject. "Yes, she is," I agree.

"Is she still married?"

"No. She divorced about five years ago."

"Why aren't you with her?" Ana asks.

"Because that's over between us. I've told you this." Before I can get really upset about her repetitive, nerve-irking question, I feel my Blackberry buzz against my chest, in the inside pocket of my jacket. I hold up a finger in Ana's direction and reach for it. I check the caller ID, and then answer.

"Welch."

"I have some information on Leila, sir. Apparently she and the former husband had been on the outs for more time than we'd thought. She left him about three months ago. Leila was with someone new, a boyfriend, who was killed in a car crash."

"Killed in a car crash?" I repeat. "When?"

"Mr. Reed said about four weeks ago, Sir."

"That's twice that bastard's not been forthcoming. He must know. Does he have no feelings for her whatsoever?" Disgusted, I shake my head. The men in this day and age. "This is beginning to make sense."

"Have you heard anything from Flynn?"

"No."

"So at least we have more information on what may have triggered her suicidal ideation, and possible psychotic break."

"Explains why, but not where," I say, scanning the area around us, the passers-by in the crowd, watching for her face. Could she be somewhere close by, following us? She obviously knows where she works; could she know where she lives, too? Suddenly, it concretes inside me. Of course she's following us, of course she knows where Ana lives. "She's here. She's watching us."

"So you need more security, then."

"Yes."

"Will one more be adequate?"

"No. Two or four, twenty-four seven."

"Have you talked to Anastasia about staying with you yet? It's less ground to cover, and that way, there's eyes on her all the time, yours included. It's a smart move."

"I haven't broached that yet," I tell him, eyes flicking to Ana's face.

She frowns, and I regard her, wary. How will she take it? Will she say no? But it's for her own safety, dammit.

"I think you'd better," Welch says, "There's one more thing. It's dire."

"What..."

"She's obtained a concealed weapons permit."

I feel the blood drain from my face. "I see. When?"

"Yesterday, Sir."

"That recently? But how?"

"We're not quite sure," Welch says, and he sounds ashamed, off his game. "The company must be low-key."

"No background checks?"

"None, sir."

"I see. E-mail the name, address, photos if you have them."

"Right away. And the extra security detail-"

"Twenty-four seven, from this afternoon," I order. "Establish liaison with Taylor." I end the call.

"Well?"

"That was Welch."

"Who's Welch?" she asks.

"My security adviser."

"Okay. So what's happened?"

I consider, just for a moment, not telling her. But what the hell's the point? "Leila left her husband about three months ago and ran off with a guy who was killed in a car accident four weeks ago."

"Oh," she says simply.

"The asshole shrink should have found that out," I say, anger flaring at the obviously under-educated grief counselor. "Grief, that's what this is. Come." I take her hand, only to have her snatch it away a second later.

"Wait a minute," she says, "We were in the middle of a discussion about 'us.' About her, your Mrs. Robinson."

Does she seriously want to talk about this right now? There are more important goddamn things!

"She's not my Mrs. Robinson. We can talk about it at my place."

"I don't want to go to your place. I want to get my hair cut!" she explodes.

Fine. She can get her goddamn fucking haircut.

I dial Escala.

"Good morning. Esclava, Greta speaking."

"Greta, Christian Grey. I want Franco at my place in an hour. Ask Mrs. Lincoln."

"Yes, Sir. He'll be there at one."

"Good."

I put the phone away and deliver the news to Ana.

"Christian...!" she cries, still upset.

Does she not understand the seriousness of the situation? That Leila has a gun, and is possibly following us, while we are unarmed and at her complete and utter mercy?

"Anastasia, Leila is obviously suffering a psychotic break. I don't know if it's you or me she's after, or what lengths she's prepared to go to. We'll go to your place, pick up your things, and you can stay with me until we've tracked her down."

"Why would I want to do that?"

Her question wounds me. "So I can keep you safe."

"But-" she interjects.

_For fuck's sake, Ana! I'm trying to protect you!_

Exasperated, and at the end of my fuse, I glare down at her.

"You are coming back to my apartment if I have to drag you there by your hair." There is no way I am letting her out of my sight until Leila is found and admitted to a psychiatric hospital, receiving the help she very clearly needs.

"I think you're overreacting."

"I don't," I argue. "We can continue our discussion back at my place. Come." It is not a suggestion, it is an order.

She crosses her arms across her chest and scowls at me.

"No," she snaps.

This is non-negotiable, non-debatable. She is coming to my place whether she likes it or not.

"You can walk or I can carry you. I don't mind either way, Anastasia."

"You wouldn't dare."

_Wouldn't I? _

I feel a humorless, half-smile touch my lips.

"Oh, baby, we both know that if you throw down the gauntlet, I'll be only too happy to pick it up."

With that, I bend at the waist, grab her around the thighs, and haul her over my shoulder.

"Put me down!" Her voice is loud, and shrill.

I ignore her, and begin the walk down Second Avenue, playing oblivious to the attention we are attracting.

With my free hand, I smack her ass, mostly playful, but moreso to quiet her.

"Christian!" she continues to yell. "I'll walk! I'll walk," she's finally pleading, reasoning, bargaining, agreeing, obeying.

The second her feet have found purchase on the sidewalk-and before I can totally straighten-she's turned and stalked off toward her apartment.

I catch up to her quickly, and don't push anything, casting sideways glances at her every once in awhile. She's obviously seething, lost in thought again, that furrow between her eyebrows apparent.

Abruptly, she stops walking, and automatically, my steps falter alongside hers.

"What's happened?" she asks.

Confused, I feel my brows furrow. "What do you mean?"

"With Leila."

"I've told you."

"No, you haven't," she insists, "There's something else. You didn't insist that I go to your place yesterday. So what's happened?"

Damn, she's too smart for her own good.

Two sides battle within me. I don't want her worried and anxious. She doesn't need to be concerned about this, too. But on the other hand, telling her might get across the seriousness of the situation, which she doesn't seem to grasp.

"Christian! Tell me!"

I give in. "She managed to obtain a concealed weapons permit yesterday."

As she stares at me, blinking slowly, I watch her face go pale, and the sight of it alarms me. At the same time, it gives me some sort of sick satisfaction.

_Yes, Ana. Do you see now? You or I, I don't know, are in real danger._

"That means she can just buy a gun," she breathes after a moment.

Oh, shit. Maybe I shouldn't have told her. Maybe this is too much. I only wanted her to see how serious this is; I didn't want to _frighten_ her, did I?

"Ana," I put my hands on her shoulders, tugging her closer, "I don't think she'll do anything stupid, but-I just don't want to take that risk with you..."

"Not me... What about you?" she breathes, and her eyes are so limpid, so full of concern, anxiety and some other unspoken emotion, it makes my heart twist in my chest.

I crush her hard to my front, her face in my chest, holding her there for a long moment, as the emotions riot through me, trying to make sense of them.

"Let's get back," I finally say, planting a kiss in her hair.

She shifts away from me and takes my hand, and we walk back to her apartment in silence.

She packs a small rolling suitcase and, much to my pleasure, puts the Macbook, Blackberry, the iPad and the deflated _Charlie Tango_ balloon-which elicits a small smile-in her backpack.

"Charlie Tango's coming too?"

She nods, and I grin at her. I don't know what it is about that damn deflated helicopter balloon, but I love that she feels the need to take it with her. Like a security blanket of sorts, inspired by me.

"Ethan is back Tuesday," she says now, softly.

"Ethan?" Who the hell is that?

"Kate's brother. He's staying here until he finds a place in Seattle," she explains.

I try to guard my anger from her. God forbid he's anything like the photographer...

"Well, it's good that you'll be staying with me. Give him more room."

"I don't know that he's got keys. I'll need to be back then," she continues.

I say nothing, but I'll be finding someone else to deliver the keys, if that's the case.

"That's everything," she says now.

I grab her suitcase for her, and we head down to the car.

.


	42. Chapter 42

**Saturday, June 11****th**** 2011, mid-day**

**.**

"Were all your submissives brunettes?" Ana asks as I ease out into traffic. If I drive, we'll get there faster, despite the fact that this is her car.

I frown, caught off guard by the question, and made a little wary, honestly. Where is she going with this?

"Yes."

"I just wondered," she says.

"I told you. I prefer brunettes." _Don't make me tell you why._

"Mrs. Robinson isn't a brunette," she points out.

"That's probably why. She put me off blondes forever," I joke.

"You're kidding!" she gasps.

"Yes. I'm kidding."

Ana turns her gaze out the side window, and, for a long moment, is quiet. I find myself scanning every face I see, behind wheels, in passenger seats, waiting at crosswalks... None of them are Leila, and none of them are holding handguns.

"Tell me about her," Ana finally requests.

"What do you want to know?" I ask, feeling my brows come together in confusion. If she's so abhorrent toward Elena, why would she want to know more about her?

"Tell me about your business arrangement," she suggests.

I relax, satisfied by the question. Business is an easy topic for me. Business, work, is safe.

"I am a silent partner. I'm not particularly interested in the beauty business, but she's built it into a successful venture. I just invested and helped get her started."

"Why?"

The answer is obvious: "I owed it to her."

"Oh?" she asks.

"When I dropped out of Harvard, she loaned me a hundred grand to start my business," I indulge. This is something in my past I don't tend to focus on. I'm not proud of the fact that I dropped out of one of the most prestigious universities.

"You dropped out?" she asks, seeming surprised.

"It wasn't my thing," I explain, "I did two years. Unfortunately, my parents were not so understanding." They were angry, but I think what it really came down to was concern. They didn't think I'd make it without a solid education under my belt.

"You don't seem to have done too badly dropping out. What was your major?"

"Politics and Economics."

"So, she's rich?"

"She was a bored trophy wife, Anastasia. Her husband was wealthy-big in timber. He wouldn't let her work. You know, he was controlling. Some men are like that." I cast her a quick smile.

"Really? A controlling man, surely a mythical creature?" Anastasia says, the sarcasm thick in her voice.

I feel my grin widen.

"She lent you her husband's money?" she asks.

I nod.

"That's terrible."

"He got his own back," I mutter, recalling the memory. I pull into the underground garage.

"How?"

I shake my head. I don't want to go there right now. I park beside the Audi Quattro. "Come-Franco will be here shortly."

.

I take care of some business in my office, skimming through e-mails and printing off some spreadsheets, which SIP has sent over.

I reply to Ros's phone call, which she keeps mercifully short, and after not too long, Taylor steps into the doorway, knocking on the jamb.

I look up from my computer.

"Yes?"

"The hairstylist has arrived, Sir."

I nod. "Let him in. I'll find Ana."

Taylor steps away, and abandoning the spreadsheets on the edge of my desk, I head out into the sitting room. It only takes a quick scan of the area to realize she's not there, and apprehension makes my gut heavy. Where is she?

The apprehension builds to panic, and then mania, when I check my bedroom and the library and don't find her there, either.

I pause at the bottom of the stairs, glancing up. Would she have gone up to the playroom?

I shake my head. Impossible.

"Ana?" I call, straining for a reply. There is no answer.

I mount the stairs, taking them quickly, ignoring the riotous rhythm of my heart, the metallic taste in the back of my mouth.

_She's gone. She's run. Or worse, Leila..._

I turn the handle on the playroom door, and it doesn't budge. Locked.

Raking my hand through my hair, I stand in the hallway for a moment.

Briefly, I feel the relief flood me when I realize she's not in the playroom.

But where the fuck is she?

And then I hear it-the muffled intonation of a one-sided conversation. I follow the voice-stifled by walls-down the hall, and into the submissive bedroom. The closet door is ajar, the light on, and I step into the doorway.

There, sitting on the floor, talking into her Blackberry, is Anastasia.

_Thank God!_

The relief floods through me so palpably, I want to swing her up into my arms and crush her to my chest.

_You haven't left me. You're still here. You're safe._

"There you are" I say, "I thought you'd run off."

She holds one hand out toward me and says into the phone, "Sorry, Mom, I have to go. I'll call again soon... Love you, too, Mom."

As she hangs up, I realize that she looks tense, uncomfortable.

I gaze around our surroundings, the clothes dangling from the wooden hangers, the track lighting... The design is different, but it's still a closet, and she's still hiding in here.

I shudder as it takes me back, way back, to when I used to hide from the crack whore's pimp in her closet. I never learned, always chose the same hiding place, whenever anything bad happened.

If I close my eyes and think about it really hard, I bet I could remember the sounds, muffled by my shallow surroundings, the smell of her clothes around me-something floral, gentle... Soothing.

"Why are you hiding in here?" I ask her to distract myself from the blooming thoughts. I do not want to go there.

"I'm not hiding," she says, "I'm despairing."

Alarmed, I repeat, "Despairing?"

"Of all this, Christian," she explains, waving her hand around at the clothes.

"Can I come in?"

"It's your closet."

I frown, sinking down onto the carpet across from her. I bought these clothes for her. Why can't she just take them and be thankful? It's _her _closet.

"They're just clothes. If you don't like them, I'll send them back," I try to reason.

"You're a lot to take on, you know?"

_Too much. Not enough. What's the difference?_

"I know. I'm trying," I plead.

"You're very trying," she says.

"As are you, Miss Steele."

"Why are you doing this?" she inquires, those eyes beseeching me for an answer, an honest answer.

_Don't make me say it._

"You know why."

"No, I don't," she argues.

I push a hand through my hair, exasperated. "You are one frustrating female," I tell her.

"You could have a nice brunette submissive," she says, "One who'd say, 'How high?' every time you said jump, provided of course she had permission to speak. So why me, Christian? I just don't get it."

_Yes, why you? _

I don't understand it either, honestly. When she walked-or rather, fell-into my life, she tilted my world on its axis. Nothing has been the same since. She's beautiful, and challenging, and innocent, and wise, and smart. In such a short amount of time, she's changed me so much, in ways I'm only beginning to recognize, and in others that I've been aware of, and fought against, the entire time we've known each other. My wealth was never a deciding factor-in fact, it didn't seem to affect her judgment at all. For the first time, a woman is accepting me for me, a person-not a mega-CEO.

She sees me-like really sees me. Those eyes are the sharpest, most haunting eyes, I have every laid witness to, and they pierce straight to me, down to where whatever remains of my soul lies.

I try to put my thoughts into words: "You make me look at the world differently, Anastasia. You don't want me for my money. You give me... Hope."

"Hope for what?"

I shrug. "More." Oh, if it was only that simple. "And you're right. I am used to women doing exactly what I say, when I say, doing exactly what I want. It gets old quickly. There's something about you, Anastasia, which calls to me on some deep level. I don't understand. It's a siren's call. I can't resist you, and I don't want to lose you." Unconsciously, I'm reaching out for her hand, warm against mine. "Don't run, please-have a little faith in me and a little patience. Please."

For a minute she just stares at me, with those piercing eyes, and I feel naked, exposed.

Finally she moves, coming up onto her knees and leaning in to brush her lips against mine.

"Okay," she agrees, "Faith and patience, I can live with that."

"Good. Because Franco's here."

.

While Franco does Ana's hair in my bathroom, I try and focus on the spreadsheets, positioning them around me on the couch, turning on some music to focus myself.

It doesn't work. I'm caught up in the conversation in the closet still. What caused me to be so honest, so open with her? With myself? That's part of the problem. I'm hiding from myself and my emotions, because I'm scared of what might happen if I let myself feel them.

What if I let her in-or maybe, more fittingly, myself _out_-and she leaves me again? It nearly destroyed me once before. I couldn't do it again. I can't lose her, it would undoubtedly kill me... And now, with Leila on the loose, it puts it all into perspective.

Anastasia is _so_ completely different from all of my past subs. She may look much the same on the outside-hair, skin, body type-but on the inside, she's an entire galaxy of difference. And what's more, I like it.

What's more I think I'm... No, can I go there?

No. Not now.

I shake my head and pour myself into my work, pushing the thoughts of Anastasia aside for now.

.

When Ana and Franco walk in an hour later, I'm deep into my work, satisfyingly distracted.

I glance up, and am immensely pleased to see that she's kept it long. Franco has merely given her more shape, more style. She looks fresh and revitalized, and the newly cut layers frame her face beautifully.

I feel myself grin.

"See! I tell you he like it!"

"You look lovely, Ana," I tell her, agreeing with the stylist.

"My work 'ere is done," Franco says.

I push myself up off the couch and walk over to them. "Thank you, Franco."

The little dark man turns and envelopes Ana in a ginormous hug, and plants a kiss on both of her cheeks.

Good thing he's gay.

"Never let anyone else be cutting your hair, bellisimma Ana!" he tells her.

She laughs nervously, cheeks turning pink, just slightly. She really does look fantastic.

I show Franco to the door, pay and tip him.

When I return, Ana is standing in the same spot I left her in.

"I'm glad you kept it long." I finger one of the strands, like silk against my skin. "So soft," I muse. "Are you still mad at me?"

She nods, solemn, and I smile.

"What precisely are you mad at me about?"

She rolls her eyes heavenward, and for the first time, my immediate reaction is not to spank her. I'm surprised by the amusement which fills me instead.

"You want the list?"

"There's a list?"

"A long one," she confirms.

"Can we discuss it in bed?"

"No."

_Damn._

"Over lunch, then," I acquiesce. "I'm hungry, and not just for food." I grin at her suggestively.

"I'm not going to let you dazzle me with your sexpertise," she says.

_Sexpertise?_ I feel myself smile, and attempt to muffle it.

"What is bothering you specifically, Miss Steele? Spit it out."

She seems to take a breath.

"What's bothering me? Well, there's your gross invasion of my privacy, the fact that you took me to some place where your ex-mistress works and you used to take all your lovers to have their bits waxed, you man-handled me in the street like I was six years old-and to cap it all, you let your Mrs. Robinson touch you!"

I raise my eyebrows, taken aback by her outburst. Abruptly, my mood sobers.

"That's quite a list. But just to clarify once more-she's not _my_ Mrs. Robinson."

"She can touch you," she points out, stubborn.

"She knows where," I explain. After too many trials and errors.

"What does that mean?"

Oh, for fuck's sake. I really don't want to be talking about this. I haven't sorted these feelings out for myself yet, let alone figured out how to explain them to Anastasia.

I run both hands through my hair and shut my eyes briefly, trying to compose myself.

"You and I don't have rules. I have never had a relationship without rules, and I never know where you're going to touch me. It makes me nervous. Your touch completely-" My jaw clamps as I search for the right words. "It just means more... So much more."

I've _never _wanted someone to touch me, it's never been a welcoming feeling, _ever. _But with Ana, all of that's different, and it's... Baffling.

I stare into her eyes, watching her process my words, hoping what I've said is enough, because I can't go any further than that.

Slowly, intentionally, she reaches out, her hand coming toward me.

Reflexively, I step back, out of her reach, and her hand drops.

"Hard limit," I breathe, the flurry of emotions whirling inside me again.

Her face falls. "How would you feel if you couldn't touch me?"

"Devastated and deprived." Shit, is this a deal breaker? I can't imagine not touching Ana, but I can't let her touch me-I just can't. It means too much, and there's so much there, so many bad memories, but so many conflicting feelings...

Mercifully, she gives me a small, reassuring smile. I feel myself relax underneath the glow of it.

"You'll have to tell me exactly why this is a hard limit, one day, please," she murmurs.

"One day." With that part of the conversation taken care of, I move on to the next point. "So, the rest of your list. Invading your privacy." I feel my mouth twist in displeasure. "Because I know your bank account number?"

"Yes, that's outrageous," she says.

"I do background checks on all my submissives," I remind her, "I'll show you." I turn, headed for my study, and she follows me.

I unlock the filing cabinet, and thumb through it for her file, snatching it out. When I turn to her, I find her scowling at me.

Immediately, I feel ashamed.

I shrug. "You can keep it."

It doesn't apply anymore. She wasn't what I thought she'd be, no, but she's so much better than what I could have imagined.

"Well, gee, thanks."

I watch her open the file, flipping through its contents: a copy of her birth certificate, her hard limits, the NDA, the contract, her social security number, resume, and employment records...

"So, you knew I worked at Clayton's?" she asks.

"Yes," I admit.

"It wasn't a coincidence. You didn't just drop by?"

"No."

Nothing about the beginning stages was chance. Every bit of it was planned, predictable, controlled.

"This is fucked-up," she states, "You know that?"

"I don't see it that way," I argue, "What I do, I have to be careful." All my bases covered, everything out in the open. I have to know exactly what I'm getting myself into. Or rather, who. Anastasia, somehow, pulled the wool over my eyes. As I gaze at her, I remember my first impression of her, that day she fell into my office, hair in those ocean blue eyes. Meek, mild mannered, shy, demure. Perfectly submissive, or so it seemed...

"But this is private," she protests now.

"I don't misuse the information," I assure her, "Anyone can get hold of it if they have half a mind to, Anastasia. To have control-I need information. It's how I've always operated." In every aspect of my life.

"You do misuse the information," she argues, "You deposited twenty-four thousand dollars that I didn't want into my account."

Irritation flares, and I press my mouth into a line to keep it at bay. "I told you. That's what Taylor managed to get for your car. Unbelievable, I know, but there you go."

"But the Audi..." she trails off.

"Anastasia, do you have any idea how much money I make?" I ask her, aware I sound exasperated.

Her cheeks turn red. "Why should I? I don't need to know the bottom line of your bank account, Christian."

I feel my bad mood dissipate at her words, the anger in my eyes softening. "I know. That's one of the things I love about you."

I don't give it enough time to process the look she gives me.

"Anastasia, I earn roughly one hundred thousand dollars an hour."

Her jaw drops, apparently shocked.

"Twenty-four thousand dollars is nothing," I assure her, "The car, the Tess books, the clothes, they're nothing." Nothing compared to the way I feel for you. Nothing compared to the underlying messages I want those gifts to convey.

"If you were me, how would you feel about all this... Largesse coming your way?" she asks me.

I stare at her as I realize that I have not an earthly clue on how that would feel. Not an inkling. I wish I did.

After a long while, I lift my shoulders. "I don't know."

"It doesn't feel great," she tells me, "I mean, you're very generous, but it makes me uncomfortable. I have told you this enough times."

I exhale heavily. "I want to give you the world, Anastasia." And I want her to accept it, because she deserves it.

"I just want you, Christian," she insists, "Not all the add-ons."

Just me? But...

"They're part of the deal. Part of what I am."

She glances around the room, shoulders sagging in defeat.

"Shall we eat?" she asks.

I frown, knowing that she's changing the subject, knowing that this isn't going to be resolved, at least not today.

"Sure," I relent.

.

"Detroit's available to meet next Friday, the seventeenth. Does that work for you?"

"Have Nate call Andrea," I tell Ros, staring distractedly out my office window, "It should work. We can take _Charlie Tango._"

I can almost hear her grin through the phone. "Great," she says. I can hear the excitement in her voice. She's never had the opportunity to fly in the helicopter before, so this will be her first time.

"Anything else?"

We talk briefly about SIP, their financial situation, possibilities for widening their horizons. I keep the conversation short, my rumbling stomach distracting me. I really am quite hungry.

"Okay, let's set up a telephone conference for Monday morning. I want to get some more information."

"Sure thing, Christian."

"That's it, Ros."

"Thanks. Have a good weekend."

"You, too." I hang up, and go searching for my woman.

I find her, obviously, in the kitchen whisking eggs at the counter. Coming up behind her, I wind my arms around her waist, making her jump.

"Interesting choice of music," I murmur in her ear, noting Beyonce's 'Crazy In Love' playing on my iPod, on the dock across the room. It's definitely a far cry from 'Bailero', which was playing earlier. I inhale a noseful of her shampoo. Different, but good. "Your hair smells good." I take another inhalation.

She shrugs me off. "I'm still mad at you."

I can't fight the frown that makes its way onto my face. Frankly, I'm done with the fighting. I'm having a grand old time with her here, in my apartment, where we're contained and safe, and she's cooking me lunch, and then we'll make love...

Damn, she's putting a damper on my mood.

"How long are you going to keep this up?"

She shrugs one shoulder, beating the eggs with the other hand. "At least until I've eaten."

I feel my mouth twitch in amusement.

The music is too loud, distracting, and I pick up the remote to turn it off.

"Did you put that on your iPod?" she asks, the sudden silence a void around us, which grows thicker with her question.

I shake my head at her, and I know the unspoken answer is in my eyes.

I see it make its way into Ana's.

"Don't you think she was trying to tell you something back then?" she asks.

"Well, with hindsight, probably." Self-loathing opens up in my belly.

_Why didn't you notice, you asshole? Why didn't you care?_

_How could I? I wasn't the same man I was then, that I am now-changed by Anastasia..._

"Why's it still on there?"

"I quite like the song," I confess, "But if it offends you, I'll remove it."

"No, it's fine," she says, "I like to cook to music."

"What would you like to hear?"

"Surprise me," she requests.

I head over to the dock and scroll through the options, finally settling on Nina Simone's, "I Put a Spell on You." It seems fitting-she really has bewitched me completely, and she hardly even knows it.

_I put a spell on you, because you're mine._

_You better stop the things that you do._

I gaze across the room at her, all of those emotions intensifying inside me again, and she turns to gaze at me, flushing. My heart skips a beat, and the emotions give way to the dark pooling of desire, deep in my gut. In a second, I'm hard.

_No I ain't lying, no I ain't lying_

_I just can't stand it babe  
The way you're always running around._

I make my way toward her, eyes glued on hers, watching the lust open up in her face as I close the distance between us, that flush spreading, disappearing underneath the collar of her shirt... Mmm... I'd like to see where it ends...

_I just can't stand it, the way you always put me down_

_I put a spell on you because you're mine._

"Christian, please," she breathes, head tilted slightly back as I come to stand in front of her, my intentions clear, I suppose. I hope.

"Please what?"

"Don't do this," she begs.

"Do what?"

"This," she insists.

I don't think she's serious, and physical hunger for food aside, this hunger is stronger. This is a desire I need to sate. Now.

"Are you sure?" I whisper, reaching for the whisk, which she holds uselessly in her hand now, and putting it back in the bowl with the eggs.

"I want you, Anastasia. I love and I hate, and I love arguing with you. It's very new. I need to know that we're okay. It's the only way I know how."

This is something new, my explaining this to her, and it feels... Like I've lifted a weight off my shoulders, now that she knows the motivation behind it.

"My feelings for you haven't changed," she whispers.

We are standing so close, less than a foot apart, and from this stance, I can see straight down her shirt, a very tempting sight indeed. I can smell her, and her scent surrounds me, consumes me, teleports me. Oh, I want her. Oh, I need her. The heat comes off her in waves, and I want to touch that alabaster skin of hers so badly...

"I'm not going to touch you until you say yes. But right now, after a really shitty morning, I want to bury myself in you and just forget everything but us."

Her eyes, from where she's been staring straight ahead, meet mine again.

"I'm going to touch your face," she warns, her voice a whisper, before she lifts her hand.

I'm surprised at her warning, and then pleased. This is okay. To know it's coming, to be prepared, makes it okay... And besides, my face is a safe place, well within the boundaries of comfort.

She touches her fingers to my unshaven cheek, running them across the stubble there. Oh, her fingers are so smooth, and so soft. I feel my eyes shut against the onslaught of emotions her touch stirs in me.

Fear, apprehension, wariness, bliss, contentment, peace... More.

I sigh, resting my face into the cradle her hand makes.

As if drawn together, like magnets, our faces incline toward one another. I stop myself just shy, so that I can feel her breath on my face.

"Yes or no, Anastasia?"

"Yes."

Because I don't want to ruin this soft and tender moment, I touch my lips to hers softly and tenderly, coaxing them apart as I take her in my arms. Oh, she feels so nice against me... Better than good. It feels like _home._

I skate my hand up her back, and into her hair, taking hold of it and tugging gently, so that her face turns up. With the other hand, I cup her backside, easing it against my erection.

_Feel me, Ana. Feel what you do to me._

She breaths something between a sigh and a moan.

"Mr. Grey," Taylor's voice interrupts us, and I release Ana, deflating at once.

"Taylor," I respond.

He stands in the doorway, and as he watches me, I realize the time, and that the extra security must be here now. Finally.

"My study."

Taylor heads across the room, in that direction.

"Rain check," I whisper to Ana, and follow Taylor through the great room.


	43. Chapter 43

**Saturday, June 11****th**** 2011, mid-day**

.

I emerge from my study, where Taylor has given me a quick go-around on the new security detail, who are waiting in the staff quarters. I'm satisfied with their credentials and employment histories.

I go over their background checks, which Welch has supplied with my asking but he knows to send them anyway. The entire time I'm reading them over, I think of Ana in the back of my mind, so offended that I ran one on her.

Honestly, some part of me does feel guilty about it, but that's a very small part. The other, bigger part just doesn't understand what the whole deal is. I run background checks on all the people who will be sharing close details of life with me-it's a matter of safety.

When I return to the kitchen, Ana has finished preparing the eggs-some type of omelet with potatoes. Suddenly, it occurs to me that Anastasia may be less than pleased with this new development, the extra security.

Wary, I don't know how to act, because I'm not sure how she'll react, I glance at her.

"I'll brief them in ten," I say to Taylor.

"We'll be ready," he assures me, and heads out.

Anastasia slides two warmed plates onto the kitchen island.

"Lunch?" she asks.

"Please." I slip onto one of the bar stools, watching her, trying to guard my expression. God, why am I so nervous about this? It's to keep her safe!

"Problem?" She cocks an eyebrow at me.

"No," I answer quickly.

Her eyebrows knit together and she frowns at me, clearly aware that there's more to it than that, knowing that I'm hiding something from her. Her eyes pierce through me like laser beams, but I ignore it, taking a bite of the omelet.

"This is good," I compliment her as the food settles in my belly, too empty. It's an uncomfortable feeling, and I hate that I've gone so long without eating. It unsettles me. "Would you like a glass of wine?" I ask her.

"No, thank you," she says.

I don't bother getting one for myself, then. I don't want to drink without her. Instead, I switch on the music from earlier, when I was going over the SIP spreadsheets while I waited for Anastasia's haircut to be finished.

"What's this?" she inquires now.

"Canteloube," I tell her, "_Songs of the Auvergne. _This is called 'Bailero'."

"It's lovely." She sounds taken by the song, entranced by it, and my heart swells again, at her unexpected appreciation for good music. Very few of my subs shared the same opinion on music, Leila especially. I shake the thought of her from my head.

_Not now, Grey._

"What language is it?"

"It's in old French-Occitan, in fact."

"You speak French," she recalls, "Do you understand it?"

"Some words, yes," and, ah... I feel myself relax into our new conversation, forgetting about the debacle of the added security for now. "My mother had a mantra: 'musical instrument, foreign language, martial art.' Elliot speaks Spanish; Mia and I speak French. Elliot plays the guitar, I play piano, and Mia the cello."

Memories swirl through my mind, of my childhood home, where we grew up together, practicing, reciting, the sound of some sort of music constantly filling the halls.

"Wow. And the martial arts?"

"Elliot does Judo," I tell her, "Mia put her foot down at age twelve and refused." I smile fondly at the recollection of the argument that went down between my sister and parents.

"I wish my mother had been that organized," Ana muses.

"Dr. Grace is formidable when it comes to the accomplishments of her children."

"She must be very proud of you. I would be."

_Proud? _Why would she be proud of _me?_

I'm nothing, and I don't deserve my mother's pride. I'm a dark, dark man with a mangled soul, fucked-up beyond recognition, perhaps beyond saving.

Abruptly, I'm lost in a sea of uncharted territory, unfamiliar with the emotions that come up in response to the thought. What's not unfamiliar, however, are the feelings of disgust, self-hatred...

I change the subject: "Have you decided what you'll wear this evening? Or do I need to come and pick something for you?"

"Um... Not yet. Did you choose all those clothes?"

"No, Anastasia, I didn't. I gave a list and your size to a personal shopper at Neiman Marcus. They should fit." And the hell with it, the anger-which is the most dominant of emotions stirring in me now-spurs me forward into admission: "Just so that you know, I have ordered additional security for this evening and the next few days. With Leila unpredictable and unaccounted for somewhere on the streets of Seattle, I think it's a wise precaution. I don't want you going out unaccompanied. Okay?"

She blinks at me, and I think it's my tone which has caused her to do so. But dammit, I am _nothing_ to be proud of. I've betrayed and gone against all of my parents' wishes. I don't know why they still put up with me. I caused them so much trouble in my teenage years, up until things with Elena took hold and smartened me up. To think they chose to adopt me, and to see all the havoc I've caused them.

"Okay," Anastasia says in response to my question.

"Good." Satisfied with her easy answer, but honestly made wary as well-nothing goes down without an argument from Miss Steele-I push back from my empty plate. "I'm going to brief them. I shouldn't be long."

"They're here?" she asks.

"Yes."

I pick up my plate, put it in the sink, and head back toward my office, where Taylor and the new security should be waiting.

There are four people standing alongside Taylor when I arrive, three men and a woman. The men are introduced as Luke Sawyer, Marcus Reynolds, and Gideon Ryan. The woman is Belinda Prescott, who I've specifically assigned to Anastasia.

She is dark-skinned, and has a serious, no-nonsense look about her. By the way she addresses me, I feel she'll do fine.

The other three I'm cautious about; they seem like puppies competing for Taylor's attention. I ignore the annoying behavior and go over the rules, the protocols, the layout of the apartment.

I address Prescott directly: "Anastasia is to go nowhere without you. I don't want her out of your sight. Do you understand."

"Certainly, Sir."

I finish up with a brief tour, and then dismiss them, once I'm sure they've understood everything.

"Taylor," I say. He turns.

"The lipstick I asked you to pick up?"

"Ah, yes, Sir. I wasn't sure which color you wanted, so I selected a few. They're in the kitchen."

I head that way and find the small cosmetic shop bag on the kitchen island. I fish my hand inside and pull out the first tube I touch.

I go to find Ana, and am surprised to discover her in the sub room once more, sprawled across the bed with her Macbook.

Something about her being in here makes me uncomfortable, but I shake off the feeling and step into the room.

"What are you doing?"

Before she can answer me, I lie down on the bed beside her, and skim the Web page she's on briefly. Amusement floods me when I see that she's reading about Multiple Personality Disorders.

Because of me?

"On this site for a reason?" I inquire casually.

"Research," she answers, "Into a difficult personality." She gazes at me impassively.

I try to muffle my smile, but think I give myself away. "A difficult personality?" I repeat, knowing she means me.

"My own pet project."

"I'm a pet project now? A sideline. Science experiment maybe. When I thought I was everything. Miss Steele, you wound me." I'm joking, really, but something sinister stirs in my stomach-I can't identify the emotion. Am I really that fucked up that she thinks I have a multiple personality disorder?

"How do you know it's you?" she asks.

I'm more than aware that my mood took a sudden shift at lunchtime; and I'm also well aware that my mood swings are nothing new. Leila used to comment on it all the time. Fucking Leila, why can't I get her out of my head? "Wild guess."

"It's true that you are the only fucked-up, mercurial, control freak that I know intimately."

"I thought I was the only person you know intimately," I say, arching a brow at her. At least she's got the fucked-up part right.

Her cheeks pink. "Yes. That, too."

_Yes, Anastasia. You are all mine._

Lust opens in me, wide and deep at the thought. I want her again. Here, on this bed.

"Have you reached any conclusions yet?" I ask her.

She turns to watch me for an impassive moment.

"I think you're in need of intense therapy," she finally delivers, totally stoic, though I know she's joking.

I reach up to tuck her hair behind her ears. "I think I'm in need of you," I correct her. Because nothing has changed me so much as Anastasia, in all my years of therapy. And she offers a respite, a relief, an outlet, that nothing else has ever had the ability to do. "Here." I hand her the tube of lipstick I've brought up with me.

She frowns at me, bemused as she takes it carefully.

"You want me to wear this?"

I laugh. "No, Anastasia, not unless you want to. Not sure it's your color," I say, eyeing the tube of bright red lipstick.

I propel myself into a seated position and cross my legs. Taking a discrete breath, I pull my shirt over my head. Here we go.

My heart is like a freight train inside my chest, all of a sudden, and my fingers are tingling. My body temperature rises at least a degree or two. I fight back the panic.

"I like your road map idea," I tell her.

She only stares at me.

"The no-go areas," I explain.

"Oh," she says, catching on, "I was kidding."

"I'm not." I think it would be really beneficial, to draw out the lines as sorts, so she knows where not to cross.

"You want me to draw on you, with lipstick?" she confirms.

"It washes off. Eventually."

A small, crooked smile plays on her lips. "What about something more permanent, like a Sharpie?"

"I could get a tattoo."

"No to the tattoo!" she laughs.

"Lipstick, then," I say, grinning.

She shuts the lid on the Macbook and pushes it aside.

"Come," I tell her, offering my hands to her, "Sit on me." Where she can touch me? Freely?

I watch her cautiously as she pushes off her shoes and crawls over to me. I lie down, keeping my legs bent.

"Lean against my legs."

She straddles me, and I'm surprised to feel, amidst the panic and fear, humor. It's a strange combination of feelings. And lust, always lust.

But she's just so... Excited.

"You seem enthusiastic for this," I note. Her eyes are wide, cheeks flushed.

"I'm always eager for information, Mr. Grey," she tells me, "and it means you'll relax, because I'll know where the boundaries lie."

I shake my head, not quite able to believe I'm about to let her do this, to skate along the edges so closely. Why am I willing to let her do this?

"Open the lipstick."

She pulls the cap off and twists the tube so the lipstick protrudes.

"Give me your hand."

She offers me her free hand, and I roll my eyes.

"The one with the lipstick."

"Are you rolling your eyes at me?" she asks.

"Yep."

"That's very rude, Mr. Grey. I know some people who get positively violent at eye-rolling."

Now who would that be?

"Do you now?"

She places the other hand in mine now, and I sit up, so that we're face to face, inches apart.

"Ready?"

"Yes," she breathes.

Heart hammering, mouth dry, I pick up her hand and guide it to my shoulder.

"Press down," I instruct, and she does.

I drag her hand down, around my arm socket, and down the side of my chest, toward my ribcage, aware that I'm tensing, but I can't help it.

I can hear my breath, slow and steady, controlled, in my ears as I stop at the bottom of my ribcage, and then direct her hand across my stomach.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck. Maybe this isn't a good idea.

_Ana, please don't touch me. Please._

Oh, but I want her to.

My mind battles between the flashbacks and the desire so strong and swift, to feel those smooth hands on my skin, it knocks me reeling, internally.

"And up the other side," I say, and let go of her hand, allowing her to take over.

I watch her carefully, as she drags the lipstick up the other side of my body, mimicking the line I've created on the other side. I can see her looking at my chest, looking at the scars, and something in her face changes-hardens but softens all at the same time.

"There, done," she whispers, when she's reached my other shoulder.

"No, you're not." I trace my finger along the base of my neck, and she follows the guideline with the lipstick, her eyes shards of blue glass.

They almost look wet, as if she's fighting back tears, and the sight derails me. I'm the one who should be fighting back tears.

"Now my back."

I shift, and she climbs off me. I turn away from her, cross-legged.

This is scarier, because I can't see her, I can't see what she's doing, or where she's going to touch me.

"Follow the line from my chest, all the way around to the other side."

As the wariness resurfaces, so does the lust. The act of doing this, of trusting her so implicitly, it turns me on, and I don't know why.

I can feel myself getting hard in my pants as she drags the waxy stick across the middle of my back. She comes up the other side and pauses.

"Around your neck, too?"

I nod.

She completes the go-around.

"Finished," she says lowly.

Thank fuck.

I palpably feel my shoulders loosen, and I rotate to face her again.

"Those are the boundaries," I tell her, aware my voice sounds husky, aware I must look like prey caught in the eyes of a predator. But am I fearful? Am I lustful? I don't know. A mix of the two.

"I can live with those," she says, "Right now I want to launch myself at you."

It is then that I notice it, the dilating of her pupils, the sudden depth in her eyes.

I grin at her, widely, and hold my arms out.

"Well, Miss Steele, I'm all yours."

She squeals, then throws herself at me, catapulting me backwards, flat on the bed. I can't help but let out a laugh, feeling so entirely free in this moment, and twist so that she's underneath me.

"Now, about that rain check," I whisper, and capture her mouth with mine.

.

"You are so beautiful," I whisper, entranced by the still white plane that is her back, running my hands along it. I have never felt skin so smooth. It's like silk, no matter what time of day.

Seeming to surface from her post-coital glow, she lifts her head to look at me, and the expression I see there tells me that she doesn't believe me.

I feel my lips turn down in response. How can she not see it?

Suddenly, it's imperative she know; imperative I get this through to her.

I sweep the both of us up into a sitting position, holding her to me fast.

"You. Are. Beautiful," I repeat to her, the tip of my nose just brushing hers.

"And you're amazingly sweet sometimes," she returns, planting a soft kiss on my mouth.

Well, that's something, at least.

Carefully, I lift her, easing out of her. I see her wince as I do so. I lean forward to kiss her, gently.

"You have no idea how attractive you are, do you?" I ask her. Her cheeks color, a predictable response. "All those boys pursuing you-that isn't enough of a clue?"

"Boys?" she repeats, "What boys?"

"You want the list? The photographer, he's crazy about you, that boy in the hardware store, your roommate's older brother. Your boss," I tack on at the end, and I can hear the acid in my tone. But I can't help it. Jack fucking scum-bag Hyde.

"Oh, Christian, that's just not true," she protests.

"Trust me," I insist, "They want you. They want what's mine." I press her to me, her scent, her warmth, en-robing me. She fists her hands in my hair.

"Mine," I repeat.

"Yes, yours," she assures me, her lips turning up into an amused smile. What's so funny?

Her eyes scan my body, skipping over the sheets, and return to my face, briefly. Then they drop to my chest again.

"The line is still intact," she notes, voice soft, and I jump when I feel her finger on my skin, literally skimming the line drawn on my left shoulder. "I want to go exploring," she continues.

I feel bemusement rise, as I appraise her carefully.

"The apartment?"

"No," she says, "I was thinking of the treasure map that we've drawn on you..."

Apprehension and surprise side-line me, and I feel my eyebrows lift in reply. Abruptly, I can feel the wariness in my eyes as I regard her.

She leans forward to rub her nose against mine, and I resist the urge to stiffen.

"And what would that entail exactly, Miss Steele?" I ask her, trying vainly to keep my voice playful, but I don't think I'm succeeding.

Her hand leaves my shoulder and re-positions itself on my face. She skims my cheek with her fingertips.

"I just want to touch you everywhere I'm allowed."

Some of the wariness fades at her words, and I catch her finger between my teeth, playful.

"Ow."

I grin, growling at her.

"Okay," I agree, and release her finger. I note that the caution remains in my voice. "Wait."

I remember I'm still wearing the condom, and I lift her from my lap, removing the condom, and dropping it over the edge of the bed.

"I hate those things." I wrinkle my nose. "I've a good mind to call Dr. Greene around to give you a shot."

"You think the top ob-gyn in Seattle is going to come running?" she asks, skeptical.

"I can be very persuasive," I remind her, tucking her hair behind her ear, noting the way the new layers frame her face. "Franco's done a great job on your hair. I like these layers."

"Stop changing the subject," she pouts.

I pull her into my lap again, so that she sits astride me, and lean back on my arms.

"Touch away."

I pray the panic doesn't show through in my eyes. This is what she wants, and frankly, I want it too. The fact that I want it terrifies me more than anything else.

Blue eyes on my face, she reaches forward to run her finger along my abdomen, underneath the line.

Reflexively, I jump, and immediately she stops.

"I don't have to," she breathes.

"No, it's fine," I reassure her, and myself maybe, "Just takes some... Readjustment on my part. No one's touched me for a long time."

"Mrs. Robinson?" she guesses.

I nod, made even more nervous at mention of her name. Please don't bring her into this...

"I don't want to talk about her. It will sour your good mood."

"I can handle it," she says.

"No, you can't, Ana," I argue, "You see red whenever I mention her. My past is my past. It's a fact. I can't change it. I'm lucky that you don't have one, because it would drive me crazy if you did."

Her lips turn down into a frown. "Drive you crazy? More than you are already?" Abruptly, her expression shifts, and she smiles.

The sourness fades, and I feel my own humor tugging at my lips.

"Crazy for you," I breathe, surprised that I've said it.

Her eyes deepen, just slightly, and I try to make out the emotion in them.

"Shall I call Dr. Flynn?" she jokes.

"I don't think that will be necessary."

She scoots down a tad, and I extend my legs in front of me, from where they were bent before. Her fingers touch my skin again, my stomach, and I freeze.

Shit. That was unexpected.

I can feel the automatic pick-up in my heart rate and my breathing, the tensing of every muscle, against the inevitable onslaught of pain-but no, wait, there is no pain, only this... Ana touching me... It feels...

"I like touching you," she whispers, and I feel her fingers drift lower, along the hair that stretches between my navel and dick.

Holy fuck.

In completely uncharted territory, the feeling stirs lust, roaring like a tiger, inside me. I feel my cock twitch and stir, hardening...

What the hell...? That was unexpected, but in a totally, completely different way.

"Again?" she says softly.

I grin at her. "Oh, yes, Miss Steele, again."

.

I leave Ana to shower once we'd made love for-what?-the third or fourth time today. Planning on showering myself, I head down to my en suite and turn on the taps. As I undress in front of the mirror, the lipstick lines come into view, strange looking against my skin, and I stare at them for a moment, tracing the boundary lines with my own fingers, remembering how it felt to have Anastasia's hands on me...

I had no frame of reference of how it was to be touched when Elena and I began our relationship. It took much trial and error to get it right, to figure out where was fine and where was... Not. There were a few times I had to leave and gather myself, calm my heart-rate, control the hyperventilating, until I could gather the courage to go back to her.

And then there was... Him. There is nothing about his touch I want to look back on. I can't remember specifics, only pain, searing pain, and that strange, twisted smile on his face...

And the crack whore... She never touched me. Never kissed me, or hugged me, or stroked my face, that I can remember at least. I remember she baked me a cake for my birthday one time-probably my fourth-and that is the closest recollection I have to her offering me any sort of intimate offering.

Grace struggled a lot in the beginning, at my not wanting to be touched. I remember tears swimming in her eyes, a lot, and the confusion. I was confused too, a four year old boy, who couldn't stand to be touched, because it only brought pain and fear and confusion.

In a way, I'm still that four-year-old boy now, with Anastasia.  
But with Ana... Her touch is... Different. The fear is there, of course, by instinct more than anything else. Instinct and reflex that feels impossible to let go of.

And there's the wanting it... I want to let her touch me so badly, I want it with every part of my being, but I'm so scared... Because the intensity of the fear and the apprehension and the simple _wanting _of it is so damn intense. So utterly terrifying. I know nothing like it, I can't compare it to anything else, and so maybe that's why it has no rival, because there's nothing to compare it to.

I don't know what it's like to be touched in... What? Kindness? Love?

I can't wrap my head around it.

I stare at myself a moment longer, still tracing those red lipstick lines on my skin, and decide not to shower.

Instead, I turn for my closet, pulling down the suit I had Gail dry-clean and hang for me. I dress in the suit pants and the white dress shirt, buttoning it half-way, and snap on some cuff-links.

I remember, suddenly, the Cartier earrings I bought for Ana to wear to last Saturday's gala... Which she never got the chance to.

I head over to my bedside drawer, where I stashed them, and pull it open.

There they sit... Directly next to the Ben Wa balls...

Hmm...

I pick them both up, slipping the earrings into my pocket, and decide to check on Anastasia.

I climb the stairs, surprised by the foreboding, sinking feeling that opens in my stomach as I head toward the second level. This is all too familiar, and I decide that I don't like it. I don't like her being up here, alone, in the sub room. She's not a sub. She's... What did I call her before? My girlfriend... That doesn't seem suitable enough, honestly.

I head down the hall, distracted, and step into the room.

I stop in my tracks when I see her, reaching for a silvery gown. What's she's got on at the moment, however, is what's distracted me.

She looks... Ravenous, and if we had time, I'd fuck her again-no, make love to her.

She's wearing a black corset piece, which pushes up her breasts, putting them on show. It has silver trim on it, which do amazing things to her eyes. I can't wait to see her in the dress... Or can I?

The matching panties are scant, barely there.

The thigh-high, natural colored stockings hug her legs, making them look a mile long and absolutely edible... All she needs are some shoes...

As I stare, taking her in, she goes crimson, the blush extending over her shoulders, and to the crest of her breasts.

"Can I help you, Mr. Grey?" she asks, and I realize I've been staring at her for a minute straight, stricken. "I assume there is some purpose to your visit other than to gawk mindlessly at me."

"I am rather enjoying my mindless gawk, thank you, Miss Steele," I answer her, and step further into the room, eyes still on her. God, those curves... That tiny waist, those tits, that _ass..._ All encased in the wonderful silken lingerie she so deserves.

What a mighty fine sight; what a mighty fine woman...

What a great pick.

"Remind me to send a personal note of thanks to Caroline Acton."

She frowns, confused and wary. I can nearly see her eyes turn green with envy, and I suppress my amusement.

"The personal shopper at Neiman's," I explain.

"Oh."

"I'm quite distracted," I admit. All I can see are those legs wrapped around my waist, as I hammer into her, breasts bouncing, straining to escape from that brasserie...

"I can see that," she says, "What do you want, Christian?"

She stares at me, all serious and sassy and I can't help but grin at her.

I produce the silver balls, holding them up.

Her expression immediately falters, lips popping open, in shock I think. She wasn't expecting this. Honestly, neither was I until two minutes ago.

When I get a closer look at her, I see there's wariness there, apprehension too.

"It's not what you think," I assure her. Does she think I'm going to spank her again?

"Enlighten me."

"I thought you could wear these tonight," I suggest.

For whatever reason, as the realization sinks in, I think it would be really hot for her to wear the balls to my parents' function, at my old childhood house... Fuck-really hot.

"To this event?" she asks. It's clear she's surprised.

I can only nod, the lust clouding my vision. At the sight of her, at the implication of the balls...

"Will you spank me later?" she asks, and by the way she says it, I can tell she doesn't want me to.

"No," I answer.

I'm surprised to see disappointment on her face now, and I can't help but laugh at it.

"You want me to?"

She swallows. I watch her throat convulse, and the expression on her face is... Torn. I can't understand it.

"Well, rest assured I am not going to touch you like that, not even if you beg me." I flinch just at the thought. I realize that I'm surprisingly okay with how things are going right now-satisfied, even. I'm shocked at the realization, and how much the thought of going back into the playroom terrifies me. I don't know if I'll be able to do it.

I decided a long time ago-it feels-that if I had to the playroom or Ana, Ana won hands down. I don't know if I'll ever be able to go back into that room again...

"Do you want to play this game?" I ask her now, to take my mind off the last phrase. We're not going there. But here... We can go here. I hold the balls up. "You can always take them out if it's too much."

"Okay." Her voice is soft, and meek, and I watch that familiar blush crawl over her cheeks.

"Good girl," I tell her, unable to hide my grin. "Come here, and I'll put them in, once you've put your shoes on."

For a fleeting moment, she looks confused, turning to gaze at the gray suede stilettos she's chosen. My body hums, imagining what she'll look like with them on... Those long, long legs, lean body towering in those Louboutins... Something I've fantasized about since the beginning, since that morning in the street, after the photo shoot for Miss Kavanagh's magazine interview.

Maybe I'll fuck her in them later...

I hold my hand out to her, so she can balance on them as she steps into the shoes.

Once she's situated, I lead her over to the bed, admiring her in them and coincidentally worried she'll topple over in them. I retrieve the only chair in the room, setting it down in front of her.

"When I nod, you bend down and hold on to the chair. Understand?"

_Oh, please. I want to fuck her. I'll be quick, I promise..._

"Yes," she breathes.

"Good. Now open your mouth."

She does, and I stick my finger in. I see the surprise in her eyes when I do-that was unexpected, apparently-but she recovers rather quickly.

"Suck," I order her.

She reaches up, steadying my hand with hers, and closes her lips around my finger.

The action of those hot lips closing down on my finger, that tongue swirling around, it makes me hard. I imagine those lips, that tongue, on my cock... And inwardly groan.

Fuck, this is hot.

I slip the balls in her mouth to lubricate them-though I wonder if we'll need any judging by the heady look in her eyes-and go to withdraw my finger. As I do so, she bites down, stopping me.

I grin at her playfulness and shake my head at her. She lets go, obediently, and I nod, signaling her to bend over.

Sometimes having her do exactly as I expect, precisely when I expect it, can be hot. Maybe it's because, as I'm expecting her to be her challenging, disobedient self, suddenly she goes all meek and compliant.

I pull her panties to one side, exposing that vulnerable pink place between her legs to me, admiring the curve of her behind, and the long expanse of stockinged legs after that. Mmm... What a mighty fine creature she is... And she doesn't even know it.

I was right, she is wet, and inch by inch, I slip a finger inside her, closing my eyes as I sink further into that damp, warm, tight place.

I rotate my finger in incremental movements, so that she feels me on all sides, everywhere, and I hear her moan softly at my ministrations.

It makes me smirk.

_Yes, baby, feel me. There's no resisting._

I pull my finger out and replace it with the balls, watching them disappear inside with a humming sort of satisfaction. Once placed, I return her panties to the proper position, taking care to leave them exactly as I found them, and I kiss her backside.

Oh, those legs...

From ankle to thigh, I run my hands up them, reveling in the silky feel of the stockings against my skin, and then the even softer feel of her thighs past them.

I kiss the place where each of the stockings end, and hook into the garter belt.

"You have fine, fine legs, Miss Steele," I tell her. My voice sounds low and husky.

I straighten, gripping her hips, and pull her back against me, against my hard-as-nails cock.

"Maybe I'll have you this way when we get home, Anastasia. You can stand now."

She does, slowly, and I lean forward to kiss her on the shoulder.

"I bought these for you to wear to last Saturday's gala," I indulge her, remembering the way I'd gone into the store after work on the Wednesday, I think it was. I had no idea that she'd be leaving me, and with the highest of hopes that she would have been able to wear them...

Deep, dark dread opens up in the pit of my belly when I look back on those long five days of night... But at the same time, hope blooms, when I realize that she's back-and she can wear them now.

"But you left me," I continue, "so I never had the opportunity to give them to you... This is my second chance." And I'm going to make it right, because what I feel for her... I blink back the thought. I can't go there right now.

The day I'd bought the earrings, I suppose I subconsciously was making a decision, to try for more. The emotions and the stirrings and the idea of it have been whirring inside me for quite a while, since before she left me, for sure.

I just don't think I realized it until she was gone.

Would we have eventually begun to move away from what she hated so much, if she hadn't left? Or would we still be caught in purgatory, between the lifestyle I knew, and the relationship she-and I'm beginning to realize, I-wanted?

She reaches for the box, sitting on my palm, now and opens the lid, examining the pair of diamond drop earrings inside. They are perfect for her-simple, but extraordinary. I watch her face the entire time.

"They're lovely," she breathes, "Thank you."

_Oh, she likes them._

Unexpected relief floods my body, and I sag against her. The earrings mean so much more... I don't know what I would have done if she hadn't liked them, or worse, rejected them.

I plant a kiss on her bare shoulder once more.

"You're wearing the silver satin dress?" I ask her.

"Yes," she replies, "Is that okay?"

"Of course. I'll let you get ready."

Warring with the steady stream of unnamed-or maybe just ignored-emotions, I walk out of the room.

.


	44. Chapter 44

_**We have nearly concluded our kitchen renovation, which explains my absence over the weekend. It's been crazy around here, trying to keep a VERY curious toddler out of the construction zone, all while dealing with pretty significant morning sickness (which I'm thankful for! Don't get me wrong. It can just be a little debilitating.)**_

_**So, while my daughter naps, I'm lounging in bed (because I can) and I'm finishing up this chapter for you all!**_

_**You've finally caught up to my overzealous writing, and so the delays between chapters may be a tad more pronounced now, but nothing you can't handle-I assure you ;)**_

_**xo**_

_**.**_

**Saturday, June 11****th**** 2011 - evening**

**.**

I finish getting ready, donning my dinner jacket and bow tie.

I gather the masks as I receive a text from Taylor, informing me that he and the security team are ready to go. I've decided we won't need Prescott along, and so stepping out into the hallway, I find Taylor standing with Ian, Ryan and Sawyer. The three of them glance up attentively, when I appear.

"Mr. Grey," Taylor greets me, eliciting an echo of the greeting from the other three.

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. So eager to impress-exactly like a sprawling, stupid pile of puppies. Puppies, at least, are cute and playful.

We go over the plan for the evening-scattered security, eyes on Ana at all times. I stress the importance of not letting her out of their sight. Because I'm more worried about her than I am myself-Leila wouldn't try anything at my parents' gala, would she?-I tell Taylor to especially keep an eye on her.

I'm alerted to Ana's presence when all three gazes flicker over my shoulder, then do a double take and stare. I see the appreciation reflected in their eyes, and I know it's Ana.

I turn around and see her, drinking in the sight of her.

That silver gown, rippling down her body, hugging her curves just right... Minimal makeup, but she doesn't really need it. Her cheeks are flushed more than usual, and I wonder if it's from the attention, or if it's from the balls...

Her hair falls in a dark curtain around her shoulders, to her breasts.

She stands at least five inches taller in the Louboutins, and I can just imagine those legs underneath that gown, those stockings, that delectable lingerie...

My insides hum at the sight of her, and of my extra knowledge which no one else possesses. I know what she wears underneath, and it's not just the corset and tiny panties...

I am in utter awe of the woman standing at the end of the hall, and almost unconsciously, dazed by the sight of her, I go to her.

I lean down and press my lips into her glossy hair.

"Anastasia. You look breathtaking."

I watch the pink in her cheeks deepen in color at my compliment.

"A glass of champagne before we go?" I offer.

"Please."

I nod to Taylor, signaling that we'll meet him at the car, and the four men leave.

I lead Ana into the great room, retrieving a chilled bottle of Boizel from the refrigerator.

"Security team?" she asks, referring to the men in the hallway as I pour us each a glass.

"Close protection. They're under Taylor's control. He's trained in that, too." I hand one of the flutes to her, and she takes it.

"He's very versatile," she comments.

"Yes, he is," I agree, then I smile at her. "You look lovely, Anastasia. Cheers." I raise my own glass, and she clinks the rim of hers against it.

I sip mine, fine bubbles crackling on my tongue, bursts of citrus fruits and a tang of spice. It's a good one. I watch her swallow a bit of her own champagne, wetting her lips. Her cheeks are still very flushed, and I'm sure, now, that it's because of the Ben Wa balls.

"How are you feeling?" I ask her.

"Fine, thank you," she answers, blase, and smiles sweetly.

I smirk at her.

"Here, you're going to need this." I pass over a large velvet pouch, which was lounging on the island counter top, waiting for us, per my instructions. "Open it," I urge, and take another sip of champagne.

She reaches inside and produces a beautiful mask. It's silver, a plume of bright blue feathers on top. Wow. It's going to look stunning with her dress, and her eyes.

"It's a masked ball," I explain.

"I see."

"This will show off your beautiful eyes, Anastasia."

She smiles at me coyly.

"Are you wearing one?" she asks.

"Of course," I say, "They're very liberating in a way." I cock an eyebrow at her. "Come. I want to show you something." I offer my hand to her and she takes it. I guide her out into the hallway, and to the library door, beside the stairs.

I push open the door, and then turn my eyes on her face, watching her take it in.

Her eyes widen slightly, and I see the pleasure on her face as she takes in the walls of books, and the full-sized billiard table in the center of the room.

"You have a library!" she gasps excitedly.

"Yes," I say, "the 'balls room', as Elliot calls it." Oh, brother. "The apartment is quite spacious. I realized today, when you mentioned exploring, that I've never given you a tour. We don't have time now, but I thought I'd show you this room, and maybe challenge you to a game of billiards in the not-too-distant future."

_The possibilities..._

She smiles widely at me.

"Bring it on," she says, sounding pretty damn confident in herself.

"What?" I smirk at her.

"Nothing," she blurts, averting her eyes.

I narrow my eyes at her. She's hiding something.

"Well, maybe Dr. Flynn can uncover your secrets," I tease, "You'll meet him this evening," I add.

"The expensive charlatan?" she asks, sounding surprised. I wonder if it's in a good way, or a bad way.

"The very same," I confirm, "He's dying to meet you."

.

Taylor and Sawyer drive us to Bellevue.

Ana asks me where I got the lipstick.

"Taylor," I answer her, mouthing his name silently as I point toward the front of the vehicle.

She bursts into laughter-probably imagining Taylor's arsenal of makeup equipment. She stops suddenly, her cheeks flushing pinker than I've seen them so far, eyes widening, shoulders hunching in slightly.

Oh.

She bites down on that lower lip and I smile at her, knowing exactly what's going on.

"Relax," I whisper to her, "If it's too much..." I trail off, kissing each of her knuckles, and biting down on the tip of her pinky. If it's too much... Well, I'll just have to deal with it, won't I?

She closes her eyes, and the set of her face changes. I can nearly feel the desire coming off of her, in palpable waves, and it feeds my own lust.

I don't know how long I'll be able to wait. I find myself hoping she gives in to the sensation... And soon.

.

Masks on-it's a strangely comforting feeling, though I know I'm not _really_ hiding, I lead Anastasia around to the tent out back, arm around her waist in a protective manner I hope she doesn't recognize.

As usual, my mother has outdone herself, gone all out with the decorations-tons of light lantern things, a long dark green carpet running from the front curb to the tent.

Each time someone veers too close as we all head toward the party, I try not to cringe. I trust Taylor, I'm not so sure about the new guy. I hope he's watching, and on high-alert. Taylor knows to be; I don't know so much about Sawyer.

I know from his background check that he's perfectly capable-but he has yet to impress me.

"Mr. Grey!" I hear, and glance over to see two photographers-one from the _Seattle Times, _the other hired for souvenir purposes by my mother-standing in front of an ivy-draped arbor-obviously a backdrop for pictures.

I nod toward him, figuring why the hell not, and tug Ana close to my side. We pose for a photo, and move on.

Partially, I've done this because I know my mother will kill me if she doesn't have a photo of me from the party. Another part, is because I just wanted to. I like taking pictures with Ana. I like having her at my side. I like that, according to Ana, she is the only woman I've ever had a picture taken with.

"Two photographers?" she inquires as we fall back in step with the others, along the long green rug.

"One is from the _Seattle Times_; the other is for a souvenir. We'll be able to buy a copy later," I explain.

As we reach the end of t he carpet, servers offer trays of champagne. I pass Ana a glass and take one for myself, as well.

The tent is positioned where it usually is, the black-and-white checkered dance floor fenced in, entrances on three sides-as per usual. The only difference are more of those lantern things, and the ice sculptures of swans standing at each entrance to the dance floor. They are exquisite, and, again, I think of just how far my mother will go for a party.

A string quartet is set up on the stage, playing a soft classical melody. Something about it twists in my stomach-it is haunting, and extremely melancholy. Beautiful, but very sad.

I grasp Ana's hand in mine, ignoring the feelings the music elicits in me, and I take her onto the dance floor where, for now, there is no dancing-only socializing.

Through the open flaps of the tent, I can see the seating area, set up in another tent closer to the shore line.

"How many people are coming?" Ana asks me, eyeing the dining arrangements.

"I think about three hundred," I tell her, "You'll have to ask my mother." I smile at her.

"Christian!" A shrill voice calls, piercing sharply through the upbeat murmur of the crowd.

Mia.

She slips from nowhere out of the crowd and throws her arms around my neck, squeezing me tight.

She turns to Ana.

"Ana! Oh, darling, you look gorgeous!" She embraces her, too. "You must come and meet my friends," she insists, "None of them can believe that Christian finally has a girlfriend."

Ana glances at me, and I see momentary panic light her eyes. I shrug in a way that I hope conveys how sorry I am for her behavior, and that I know how she feels, because I grew up with it.

Mia grabs Ana's hand and essentially drags her over to a smattering of women-the usual four girls Mia brings anywhere, most of them whom I cannot stand.

Mia introduces Ana to them, including a girl named Lily, who I am not fond of at all. It's clear she's had a crush on me-she's never tried to hide it.

I gaze around the room, distracted by the girlishness of this all. I'd rather be somewhere else, honestly.

I find my eyes lingering on many of the women faces, trying to recognize Leila underneath the masks, and for the first time this evening, panic hums in my veins, vibrates in my belly.

Was this really a good idea to bring Ana to this? Is it too public, too much room for error?

I snake my around around Ana's waist, needing to touch her, to have her close to me again.

"Ladies, if I could claim my date back, please?" I say, pulling her flush to my side. I grin at them, trying to seem cavalier, and as usual, they all blush and swoon in response.

I see Mia roll her eyes at Ana, and as she laughs, I suppress my smile. So, they've noticed it too.

"Lovely to meet you," Ana throws over her shoulder as I lead her away.

"Thank you," she mouths at me once we're out of earshot.

"I saw that Lily was with Mia. She is one nasty piece of work." I cringe at the many advances she's made at me over the years.

"She likes you," Ana murmurs, sort of bitterly.

I shudder playfully. "Well, the feeling is not mutual," I assure, amusement rising as I see the jealousy tint her eyes green. "Come, let me introduce you to some people."

.

Half an hour later, we are finally called to be seated.

Grateful and starving, I take Ana's hand and follow the guests to the dining tent, and consider the seating plan. I find our names quickly, and weave through the white-linen-clothed tables to one in the center, where Mia and my mother are already sitting. They don't see us approach, already deep in conversation with a guy I don't know. I keep an eye on him, but he looks fine enough. Disillusioned a little, I think, to think he has a chance with Mia. He looks uncomfortable and out of his element, in his tuxedo buttoned right to the throat. It looks as if his tie is choking him, as he answers my mother's questions.

My mother wears a long, light green gown, with a matching Venetian mask. Mia compliments her minty gown with a slightly overzealous pink ballgown, but it suits her, I suppose. I hadn't taken notice of what she was wearing earlier. Her mask is a little frillier, a little more gossamer, but again, it suits her.

"Ana, how delightful to see you again!" my mother finally greets Ana, noticing our arrival. "And looking so beautiful, too."

"Mother," I greet her, kissing her on each cheek in turn.

"Oh, Christian, so formal!"

Grandmother and Grandfather join us at the table as well. It's been too long, and fond memories of childhood days spend in their apple orchard, and the apple pie at Thanksgiving. Pecan pie at Christmas... Grandmother has always been a spectacular baker. She used to make me a cake every year for my birthday. My mother can cook; baking is another story.

"Grandmother, Grandfather, may I introduce Anastasia Steele?" I say to them and their matching bronze masks. They look as effervescent as ever beneath them.

"Oh, he's finally found someone, how wonderful, and so pretty!" Grandmother exudes, "Well, I do hope you make an honest man of him." She shakes Ana's hand so fast it blurs.

I can't see it behind the mask, but I know Ana has to be blushing. I can't suppress my smirk of amusement.

My Grandmother has never been one for subtlety.

"Mother, don't embarrass Ana," my mother chides.

"Ignore the silly cold coot, m'dear," Grandfather teases, and shakes her hand as well. "She thinks because she's so old, she has a God-given right to say whatever nonsense pops into that woolly head of hers."

Mia introduces Ana to her date as Sean.

I can't believe it when he gives Ana an ostentatious grin, and they shake hands.

"Pleased to meet you, Sean," Ana says.

He turns to me now, and I squeeze his hand a little harder than usual as we shake, regarding him carefully. No, definitely not good enough.

Lance and Janine Keith join our table as well, just in time, as usual.

I see my father come onstage. The microphone hisses, and my father's voice comes over, too loud. The chatter dies down immediately.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to our annual charity ball," he greets everyone, "I hope that you enjoy what we have laid out for you tonight and that you'll dig deep into your pockets to support the fantastic work that our team does with Coping Together. As you know, it's a cause that is very close to my wife's heart, and mine."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ana glance over at me, and I turn my gaze on her and smirk.

"I'll hand you over now to our master of ceremonies," my father continues, "Please be seated, and enjoy."

Short applause bubbles around the room, and the chatter starts up again.

I help Ana into her seat and take mine beside her. My grandfather sits on the other side of her, grandmother beside him.

My father walks over, leaning down to kiss Ana on both cheeks, embarrassing me.

"Good to see you again, Ana," he tells her, and takes his seat beside my mother.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the master of ceremonies pipes up, "please nominate a table head."

Let the games begin.

"Oooh-me, me!" Mia calls at once, bouncing in her seat. It's the same way every years, as far back as I can remember.

My mother and father have been throwing this charity ball for as long as I can recall. At first, in childhood, it was fun and exciting. As the host and hostess's children, we were allowed to attend the dance. As I got older, and more knowledgeable, I began to wonder if I had something to do with the cause for the ball, and now, at twenty-seven, I am sure I-and the crack whore-inspired it.

It makes me uncomfortable in a way that itches, and I never pay attention to it long. I treat it as another charity gala, another party, and I try to put away the rest.

"In the center of the table you will find an envelope," the MC continues. "Would everyone find, beg, borrow, or steal a bill of the highest denomination you can manage, write your name on it, and place it inside the envelope? Table heads, please guard these envelopes carefully. We will need them later."

Retrieving my wallet from my back pocket, I fish out two $100 bills, noting Ana's sudden panic.

"Here." I hand them to her.

"I'll pay you back," she whispers as she takes them.

Abruptly my mood sours, and I feel my mouth contort. I wish she wouldn't say things like that. I wish she'd just take the money, and that is that. Two hundred dollars is nothing in the grand scheme of things. Especially considering what it's going toward.

As Mia passes the envelope around, and after I've signed my own contribution-$500 should be a good amount to start off with-I peruse the menu.

Salmon tartae with creme fraiche and cucumber on toasted brioche for the appetizer, paired with a 2006 Alban Estate Roussanne, roasted duck breast for the entree, with a 2006 Vielles Vigness Domaine De La Janesse, sugar-crusted walnut chiffon, candied figs, sabayon and maple ice cream, with Vin De Constance 2004 Klein Constantia for dessert. A selection of local cheeses and breads, coffees and petite fours finishes off the menu.

A good selection, and a lot of wine. I can handle the two glasses of champagne I've already had, but Ana looks flushed, and I can't tell if it's from the balls or the alcohol. It is a party, and we aren't driving, but still-there's no need to get reckless.

Out of my periphery I watch her as the waiters approach, pouring wine and water. She shifts in her seat just slightly, hands in her lap, and I wonder how she's doing.

Lust stirs deep in my groin, imagining the heat, the moisture, that would greet me right about now. She's handling the balls rather well. I imagined she would have given up by now, but as ever, she surprises me, and, as ever, it turns me on.

The starters are placed in front of us. Oh, it smells good.

"Hungry?" I murmur in Ana's ear. I hope she catches on, and knows that I'm not talking about the food, though I am starving.

"Very," she breathes, lifting her eyes to mine, and as I stare, the blue in them deepens, expands, and her pupils dilate.

Her bravado spikes the lust, and I notice that my breath grows faster, shallower. I part my lips to accommodate it. Oh, I want her. I have half a mind to excuse us right this moment, but that would be too conspicuous.

Grandfather asks her a question now, stealing her attention, and the spell is broken. The dark, sticky burn of lust still prowls inside me, but it's tamed for now, locked in a cage. I can handle this. I can control this. It's easy. I've done it before.

But not with Ana. Never with Ana. I never _want_ to fight it with her.

.

Once distracted by Lance with a question about work, it's easier to get through the meal. Plus, I really am starving.

I tell Lance about the wind-up mobile phone we're working on, figuring it's far enough into production by now to talk about, and I really am very excited about it. It holds so much potential for impoverished people.

Lance doesn't seem to understand my idea behind not patenting the technology. I'll be honest, it was a difficult decision to make, but ultimately, what's more important is reaching more people, and making it as accessible as possible.

"We took inspiration from E.F Schumacher's Small Is Beautiful principle," I explain to Lance, "What I really want, at the end of the day, is to empower impoverished communities all over the world with windup technology-devices that need no electricity or batteries, and minimal maintenance. The finances tie into that huge. Think about it. If people had to pay for it, no matter the price, there would always be someone who couldn't afford it. And that's not what I'm going after. I want to improve the lives of these people, in any way I can. Through Baseline" the telecommunications company we work with "I'm striving to be the first to market with a windup mobile phone."

Lance offers his own opinions, which I will not be deterred by. I listen to them, of course, but take them with a grain of salt. This is an awesome idea, and I know it.

.

By the time dessert is served, I can see that Ana is getting really uncomfortable. She is shifting at a near constant in her seat now, and is rather flushed. On the thigh closest to me, her fist is balled tight, skin stretched white over the knuckles.

I'm about to lean over and suggest we excuse ourselves for a moment-or two-the MC appears, assistant alongside him. I barely glance up, just trying to think of a way to excuse us without making it too obvious, while the winning bill is pulled by my mother.

Sean wins the silk-wrapped basket in the middle of the table.

We all applaud.

As it dies down, Ana leans toward me.

"If you'll excuse me," she says.

"Do you need the powder room?"

She nods.

"I'll show you."

She stands, and I, along with all of the other men at he table, stand with her.

"No, Christian!" Mia interjects, "You're not taking Ana-I will."

For Christ's fucking sake.

Before I can argue, Mia is on her feet and leading Ana away.

I _really _wanted to be the one to pulls those balls out... And replace them with mine.

While they're gone, the auction prize list is passed out, and my father returns to the stage, to start the proceedings.

They return a few minutes later, and Ana looks only slightly more comfortable. As she sits, she gazes at me, biting her lip, and I wonder what she's thinking.

She flushes and I try not to grin at her.

We'll get another opportunity, I'm sure.

Leave it to Mia to unknowingly cock-block me. I almost laugh at the thought.

Little sisters...

Now, something on Ana's face shifts to anger, and it entertains me to see her so upset about our missed opportunity. I reach over and squeeze her hand, trying to reassure her without words.

I turn my attention back to Carrick, who is midway through his speech now. I'm not really listening, honestly. In fact, I'm trying hard not to.

I pass the list of auction prizes to Ana, and watch her read it over, surprise lighting in her eyes at one point.

She blinks at me when she's done.

"You own property in Aspen?" she hisses under her breath once she's done reading, the auction having started now.

I nod, surprised at her anger at the surprise, irritated by it. Why the hell is she angry about that? I put my finger to my lips, hoping to silence her.

"Do you have property elsewhere?" she pushes lowly.

I nod, tilting my head at her, which I hope comes off as a warning. She needs to be quiet, unless she wants to mistakenly bid for something. Besides, it's not polite to be having a conversation while the auction is underway.

Suddenly, the room erupts in applause and boisterous cheering, and I jump. Someone has won a price for $12,000.

"I'll tell you later," I say, my quiet voice cushioned by the celebration, "I wanted to come with you," I add, aware that I sound like a pouting child.

Surprisingly, she seems to glare at me, and I wonder why her mood has become so sour all of a sudden. I watch her scan the tent, and reflexively, I'm doing the same, searching for Leila.

I force my attention back to the auction.

We reach the bidding for my place in Aspen.

"We'll start the bid at $1000 dollars," the MC calls. Any takers?

"$1000!" someone calls out.

"$1300," someone else counters across the room.

The price builds to $1500, $1600, $1900, then lingers on $20,000. Seconds tick by as people wait.

"Going once, going twice," The MC calls.

"Twenty-four thousand dollars!" A voice calls out loudly, and I realize that it's so loud because she's sitting right beside me.

Every muscle in my body tenses when I realize it's Ana who has spoken. Every face at the table turns toward her, shocked. But I'm the one who is in the most shock of all. And all of a sudden, furious.

I know what she's doing here. I know her intentions.

"Twenty-four thousand dollars, to the lovely lady in silver," The MC calls, and I grind my teeth together, waiting for a counter. "Going once..." C'mon, anyone? "Going twice..." For fuck's sake, someone bid against her! "Sold!" he calls grandly, and rage consumes me like the ocean.

I force my hands together, into applause, thanking fuck for the mask, because if it wasn't in place, the whole room would be aware of just how infuriated I am by all of this.

I force a smile onto my face, knowing it has to look plastic, and lean over to kiss her cheek. Part of me is absolutely amazed at her audacity-impressed by it, even. The other part wants to spank her until her ass is a lovely shade of rose.

I tilt my face to whisper in her ear.

"I don't know whether to worship at your feet or spank the living shit out of you." Even as I say the words, I realize it's an impossibility. I've promised myself I would never do that again, not even if she begged me-which she won't.

I pull back slightly so I can see her face. She gazes up at me through her mask, those cobalt blue feathers striking.

"I'll take option two, please."

I can't bite back my gasp of utter shock, and then grin at her, absolutely radiant.

Oh, baby...

"Suffering, are you? We'll have to see what we can do about that."

I run my fingers gently along the smooth skin of her jaw, and pretend interest in the next item on the auction list.

Honestly, I don't even know what it is. I'm only concentrating on my next movement, as I slip my arm over her shoulders, stroking her back again and again with my thumb, reveling in the silk it feels like. I take her hand with my free one, bring it to my lips, gently, and then guide it to my lap, letting it rest there for a moment.

Glancing at her sideways, I see her, so focused on the stage. She has no idea what I'm about to do, and I can't help but grin to myself, internally.

I sweep her hand up my thigh, pressing it against my cock, which is hard and throbbing, almost painful.

Her lips part and I hear her sharp intake of breath. She glances around the table, where everyone else watches the auction, totally unassuming.

She falters for a second, but only a second. Tentatively, she strokes me. I can feel the warmth of her hand through my pants and sensation is... Otherworldly.

I hide her hand with mine, stroking the back of her neck with my thumb.

She presses against me with just the right pressure, skating her thumb over the tip of my dick, and I hear myself gasp. I can't hide it.

Oh, I need her. Now.

I feel myself elongate, growing harder by the second, as she strokes me gently, firmly, with purpose.

The bid for the last item on the list-some vacation in Montana-escalates quickly, just as I am building.

"Sold!" the MC bursts, "for one hundred ten thousand dollars!"

Everyone applauds, and I force my hands to do the same. Anastasia follows suit, and the absence of her hand is disappointing.

It doesn't matter now. The auction is finished, and we can have our fun.

"Ready?"

"Yes," she whispers.

I'm about to stand, to slip away with her in the crowd before the dancing gets underway, when I hear Mia call for her: "Ana! It's time!"

_Time? Time for fucking what?_

Damn my little sister.

"Time for what?" Ana calls back.

"The First Dance Auction," Mia explains, as if it's obvious. "Come on!" She stands, offering her hand to Ana.

I glare at Mia. Damn my little sister. Damn her for roping Ana into this. Damn her for the timing of everything.

Suddenly, Anastasia bursts into laughter, and as unexpected as it is, it is also cathartic. I feel myself relax at the sound of her laughter, and I suddenly see the humor in it, too.

"The first dance will be with me, okay?" I hiss wickedly, playfully, into her ear, "And it won't be on the dance floor."

Abruptly, her bell-like chorusing fades.

"I look forward to it," she says, kisses me softly, abruptly, on the lips.

Around us, everyone looks absolutely astonished at our blatant PDA. Ana looks embarrassed, but I can't help the broad grin that bursts onto my face.

_That's right everyone... Drink it up._


	45. Chapter 45

**Saturday, June 11****th**** 2011 - evening**

**.**

Mia and Ana join the ten other women onstage.

"Gentlemen, the highlight of the evening!" the MC announces, straining to be heard over the babble of apres-dinner conversation. "The moment you've all been waiting for! These twelve lovely ladies have all agreed to auction their first dance to the highest bidder!"

Abruptly, I see the shock on Ana's face, and around the edges of her mask, extending down the edge of her gown, I see her go pink, and grin at the realization that this is a shock to her.

_Yes, Ana, I've had my fair share of getting pulled into things by Mia as well._

"Now gentlemen, pray gather around, and take a good look at what could be yours for the first dance," the MC continues, "Twelve comely and compliant wenches." I know he's playing it up, joking, because otherwise, this would be a very different story.

I make my way in front of the stage, threading my way through tables, stopping to say hello to a few people on my way over. Once I, and the throng of other men, are in place, the MC begins the raffle.

"Ladies and gentlemen, in the tradition of the masquerade we shall maintain the mystery behind the masks and stick to first names only. First up we have the lovely Jada."

Jada is a young lady in a long navy blue taffeta gown, with matching mask. She is bidded off for $5,000.

As the next girl is auctioned off, I glue my eyes to Ana, who, beside Mia, looks very engrossed in whatever conversation they are having. Mia looks very animated, and Ana a little unassuming and shocked.

What the hell is Mia telling her?

"And now, allow me to introduce the beautiful Ana," the MC says, and I perk up immediately.

I see her cast a nervous glance at Mia, who urges her to center stage. Ana steps forward-I'm half afraid she'll trip and tumble right over the edge-but she's fine, surprisingly graceful as she comes to rest in the middle of the platform.

She looks extremely uncomfortable and embarrassed and out of her element, and I can't help but chuckle at her.

Ana catches me smirking at her and narrows her eyes.

"Beautiful Ana plays six musical instruments, speaks fluent Mandarin, and is keen on yoga," the MC bullshits. "Well, gentlemen-"

Before he can finish, I call out, "Ten thousand dollars."

"Fifteen," someone counters. The entire crowd turns to stare at who's spoken, the man standing by the stage. As abruptly as my rage and possessiveness has risen, it dissipates as quickly when I see that it's Flynn standing there, gazing at me with humored challenge in his eyes.

I can't help but smile at him, amused now. I know he won't outbid me, but you can bet as sure as hell, that he's going to urge a fair amount of money out of me.

Flynn nods at me in greeting.

"Well, gentlemen!" the MC calls, just as oblivious as everyone else, especially Ana. Oh hell, what is she going to think of this? The thought fills me with amusement. "We have high rollers in the house this evening."

"Twenty," I say now.

Around us, everyone has fallen silent. We are the stars of the show now.

"Twenty-five," Flynn counters.

How high is he going to go? I wonder.

Whatever. It's for a good cause.

"One hundred thousand dollars," I decide on.

Flynn holds up his hands, palms forward, laughing. I smirk at him.

_I win._

"One hundred thousand dollars for the lovely Ana!" the MC cries excitedly, "Going once... Going twice..." He looks pointedly at Flynn, who shakes his head and bows deeply, conceding defeat. "Sold!"

The applause and cheering explode in a deafening burst, and I step forward to help Ana off the stage, kissing the back of her hand on the way down. I tuck it into the crook of my elbow, and lead her toward the exit.

Now is our opportunity. I'll kill the next person who tries to stop us. Including my sister... Maybe.

"Who was that?" she asks as we stride away from the crowd.

I gaze at her. "Someone you can meet later. Right now, I want to show you something. We have about thirty minutes until the First Dance Auction finishes. Then we have to be back on the dance floor so that I can enjoy that dance I paid for."

"A very expensive dance," she says lowly, and I'm pretty sure I hear disapproval in her voice.

"I'm sure it'll be worth every single cent." I grin down at her.

.

I take her into the house, up two flights of stairs, down the hall, and through the second door on the right.

As I shut and lock the door behind me I say, "This was my room."

Sudden, apprehensive emotion floods my chest as I watch her take it in, appraising the plain white furniture, the double bed, desk and chair, bookshelves filled to the brim, kick-boxing trophies-which my parents thought would help tame my school brawling, and redirect all of my anger, which in a way it did. I found a real passion in kickboxing, but Elena was the one who introduced me to the lifestyle which created the biggest shift. Movie posters, and two framed posters of famous kickboxeres-Guiseppe DeNatale and Romie Adanza dominate the wall.

Her gaze shifts, over to the bulletin board over my old desk-photos, Mariners pennants, ticket stubs from concerts and recitals... It's strange to watch her take it all in, the room of my childhood. I find myself wondering how things would have been different if, by impossible circumstances, I'd met Anastasia when I was fifteen.

Her eyes come back to me, and I can feel myself stirring again. Watching her stand in the middle of my room, appraising it all, is strangely alluring... The lust, which I've fought back too many damn times this evening, opens up wide inside me.

"I've never brought a girl in here," I admit.

"Never?" she barely breathes.

I shake my head back and forth, slowly.

She is the first, as always. For maybe more things than I've realized.

The lust roars like a lion inside me now, not wanting to be ignored, demanding to be felt. I'm harder than I've been in a very long time, and the need to bury myself inside her is insatiable. To feel that smooth, warm skin against mine, to feel it under my hands...

I can hardly think through the delirium the lust instills.

"We don't have long, Anastasia, and the way I'm feeling right this moment, we won't need long. Turn around. Let me get you out of that dress."

She turns away from me, and I step up to her.

"Keep the mask on," I whisper in her ear.

I hear her groan, and smirk behind her back, where I know she can't see me.

_I haven't even touched you yet, baby._

In one fluid motion, I unzip her gown, exposing that perfect expanse of back to me, the corseted strings of the black lingerie contrasting amazingly.

I help her out of the dress and sling it carefully over the back of the desk chair, then remove my jacket, placing it on top.

I take a moment to just stare, to drink in the tall glass of water that is Anastasia Steele. I don't think I'll ever get enough of her. Especially in that little outfit, and those stellar shoes.

I untie my bow tie, then the top three buttons of my shirt. "You know, Anastasia, I was so mad when you bought my auction lot. All manner of ideas ran through my head. I had to remind myself that punishment is off the menu. But then you volunteered." Abruptly, I am overwhelmed by this woman. So fucking impressed by her ability to adapt. She has exceeded all of the expectations I ever had of her. She's better than I could have dreamed. Unexpected, challenging, always doing what I least expect. "Why did you do that?" I can only breathe, awed by her.

"Volunteer?" she asks, "I don't know. Frustration... Too much alcohol... Worthy cause." She shrugs.

"I vowed to myself I would not spank you again, even if you begged me," I tell her.

"Please."

"But then I realized," I continue, "you're probably very uncomfortable at the moment, and it's not something you're used to." I smirk at her. Being the virgin that she was, she has never had to deal with anything of the sort. Everything about this is new to her, and it's all _mine._

"Yes."

"So, there might be a certain... Latitude," I decide. Can I do this? Find balance? I don't think so. I'm not sure I can fully give it up, but I'm as sure as hell I'm not going back to it full-force again... A torrent of confusion and apprehension floods through my mind. "If I do this, you must promise me one thing." And this is vital.

"Anything," she vows.

"You will safe-word if you need to, and I will just make love to you, okay?"

"Yes," she promises, those full, perfect lips parting to accommodate her sudden shallow breaths.

I swallow hard, so many conflicting thoughts buzzing in my head, like a swarm of angry hornets. I don't think I can do this, but at the same time, I am. Doing it. Fear and panic and wariness and a whole sea of other emotions riot through me. But she wants this. And it's okay. Lovers spank their lovers all the time.

I step over to the bed and remove the duvet. I lower myself onto the edge of the mattress, and place a pillow beside me, to support her.

I gaze up at her for just a moment, and then tug her hard, so that she falls over my lap. I reorient my weight, moving her so that her body is resting on the bed, her chest on the pillow, face turned to one side.

I sweep her hair over her shoulder, so that I can see her face, and run my fingers through those bright blue feathers on her mask.

I can feel myself sinking, like settling into a hot bubble bath. The bliss, the peace surrounds me, along with a heady excitement that I've always loved. This is always how I imagined being high would be. The feeling was nothing until Anastasia walked in.

To compare how I felt before her, to how I feel now would be impossible.

Everything is intensified-the bad, the good...

"Put your hands behind your back."

She does, and I tug my bow tie over my neck, tying her hands quickly.

Oh, fuck she looks divine.

"You really want this, Anastasia?" I ask her. I can hear my voice, rough and low with need.

I watch her eyelids flutter shut, her lashes like butterfly's wings on her cheeks. "Yes."

"Why?" I urge, bringing my hand down softly, running it over the soft, soft skin of her ass. The panties do nothing.

She groans softly as I touch her. "Do I need a reason?"

"No, baby, you don't. I'm just trying to understand you."

I can't wait any longer, and understanding her aside, I want this, she wants this...

I bring my hand up, curling my other around her waist, to hold her still, and bring it down again, smacking her just above the junction of her thighs, where I know it will feel... Overwhelming.

_That's one..._

She moans, loudly, and I spank her again, in the same place.

_And two..._

Her succeeding groans light my blood on fire.

"Two. We'll go with twelve."

I hit her again, and once more, on either side, and then slowly, very slowly, peel off her panties.

I caress, then spank, caress, then spank. Again, and again.

Each time my hand makes contact with her behind, and as I watch it go pink under my palm, the lust grows stronger, more stifling, hotter.

Another, and another...

"Twelve," I finish, relieved that it's over. Relieved that I've gotten through it, that I haven't dissociated, that I feel... Satisfied with this. That I haven't lost fucking control, that she hasn't safe-worded.

I skate my fingers down, between her legs, and push two fingers into her.

Ooh... The warm, wet tightness that greets me is heaven.

I move my fingers in a circle, feeling every inch of her, and she moans loudly in response, and abruptly explodes. She shakes around me, tensing and spasming, her breathing harsh, her moans loud, intense, needful. Toward the end they quiet, and then cease all together.

"That's right, baby," I murmur when I know she's finished.

I free her wrists with my free hand, keeping my other hand where it is. She is exhausted, panting on my lap.

"I'm not finished with you yet, Anastasia," I tell her, and shift onto my knees without removing my fingers from inside her.

I free my hard-on and roll on a condom.

"Open your legs."

She does, exposing that lovely, moist part of herself to me, and only me, and I revel in it. This is mine. All fucking mine. I am one lucky son-of-a-bitch.

Positioning myself, I sink into her.

I clench my jaw at the sensation, as she sheaths me, surrounds me. She is warmer than I am, and so fucking soaked.

"This is going to be quick, baby," I caution her. I grip her hips, pull completely out of her, and plunge back in, sharply.

She cries out in response to my assault, but I hardly hear it. I'm already piquing, angels singing in my ears, going higher and higher.

Unexpectedly, she pushes back against me, meeting me thrust for fucking thrust, and my eyes roll back in my head.

Fucking _yes._

But no. I don't want this to be over yet, and if she keeps doing what she's doing, I'm going to come like a kid watching porn for the first time.

"Ana, no," I hear myself grunt, hands tightening on her hips, in a vain attempt to stifle her movements. Oh fucking hell, she feels good.

She grinds that ass into me, in perfect synchronization with my beats, and that's it.

The angels chorus and the world falls away from me.

I come, pulsing inside of her, and she comes apart around me, triggered by my orgasm.

For an instant I am blind, only those eyes, so blue, filling my vision, my every thought.

Then clarity returns, and I realize I'm lying spent over her back.

I stir, kissing her back. How long have we been here? I've been lost in her scent, in her skin, in her warmth-for hours maybe.

"I believe you owe me a dance, Miss Steele," I remind her, glancing idly at my watch. It's only been fifteen minutes.

She hums gently, not moving.

I lean back, pulling her with me, into my lap.

"We don't have long. Come on."

I kiss her glossy hair and push her into a standing position, half-expecting her to fall over.

As we finish dressing once more-her more so than me-I find her appraising the bulletin board again, and I wonder what she sees there. I wonder what she could possibly be thinking, about teen-aged Christian Fucking Grey...

I watch her further inspect the photos and ticket stubs-Elliot, Mia and I on the slopes, myself in under the Arc de Triomphe at sixteen, in London and New York, and the Grand Canyon. Sydney, and China as well. The memories of those trips elicit a fondness that is different than something I've felt recently. It's almost a homesickness, for the boy I was then, though sullen and self-abhorrent, I was safe and adventurous. Somewhere along the way, I'd lost that. But I realize that I'm finding it again, with Anastasia.

"Who's this?" she asks.

I glance over, at the photo in the corner, and I'm surprised and ashamed to find the photo of the crack whore there. I don't know why I'd kept it...

"No one of consequence. Shall I zip you up?"

.

We rejoin the party just in time, as everyone assembles on the dance floor.

My mother and father start off the proceedings, as always, and the man onstage begins to sing a rendition of Frank Sinatra's "I've Got You Under My Skin."

It's as easy as breathing to take Anastasia into my arms, and begin to sway to the music, listening to every lyric, allowing it to seep right to my very core.

"I love this song," I tell her, staring into those heavenly blue eyes. Where just a moment before I felt as if I were floating on air, suddenly my mood sobers, and I'm very serious. "Seems very fitting."

"You're under my skin, too," she echoes back to me, and then, "Or you were in your bedroom."

I purse my lips in attempt to hide my humor, but I don't think I succeed.

"Miss Steele, I had no idea you could be so crude."

"Mr. Grey," she replies, "neither did I. I think it's all my recent experiences. They've been an education."

We turn slowly, brushing past another dancing couple. "For both of us."

She's teaching me so many unfathomable things.

The song comes to an end, and we release each other to applaud the singer, who bows graciously, and introduces his band.

"May I cut in?" Flynn's voice floats over my shoulder.

It almost pains me to do it, but I let her go, an odd bit of amusement filtering in as well. It would be like Flynn to push my buttons. He warned me he'd do it at our most recent appointment.

"Be my guest. Anastasia, this is John Flynn," I introduce them, "John, Anastasia."

She obviously looks very surprised, and I grin, turning and heading off in the opposite direction. I take up post on the edge of the dance floor, and watch them dance, converse. It kills me to not know what they're saying.

The minute the song is over, I dash back over to them.

"It's been a pleasure to meet you, Anastasia," Flynn tells her now, warmly smiling at her.

"John." I nod at him.

"Christian." Flynn nods back, and walks away.

I pull her vivacious body back to mine, and we begin to move to the music again.

"He's much younger than I expected. And terribly indiscreet," she says.

Intrigued, I tilt my head to the side. "Indiscreet?"

"Oh, yes," she enthuses, clearly catching on to my interest, "He told me everything."

Reflexively, I feel my shoulders tense. I certainly hope not. "Well, in that case, I'll get your bag. I'm sure you want nothing more to do with me."

I mean for it to come off as a joke-I think-but she stops dancing now, clearly panicked.

"He didn't tell me anything!"

I blink, potent relief flooding me, and I realize I wasn't joking. Flynn knows more than anyone-more than Anastasia, even. If he's told her everything, she'll not want anything more to do with me; that's for damn sure.

Conflict is suddenly at war inside me. I want to be with her so badly, to share my life, my world, with her. But if I can't tell her everything there is to tell about me, if she doesn't know everything, I feel like she wouldn't know all of me.

But I'm so ashamed...

I shake off the thoughts and pull her into my arms again. "Then let's enjoy this dance."

.

Anastasia steps away to use the restroom.

She takes longer than is usual, and I find myself beginning to panic. I excuse myself from the conversation I've been having and head over to the temporary restrooms.

She's not there.

Casually, I jog up to the house, to the powder room inside.

I knock on the door.

"Anastasia?" I call through.

There is no answer, and when I try the knob, I find it's unlocked. I swing the door open to reveal an empty room, and the panic really starts to set in.

I burst up the stairs, checking the restrooms on that level, as well as the ones on the third level, as well as my childhood bedroom. She's not in any of those places either, and the delirium elicited by the hysteria is beginning to cloud out any sort of logical thought.

I text Taylor. He'll be where she is, won't he? Won't he?

A mere twenty seconds later, my Blackberry beeps.

**TAYLOR: **Dining tent. Having a conversation with Mrs. Lincoln.

_What the fuck?! She told me she wasn't even coming!_

Trying to stay inconspicuous, but exploding with a multitude of indefinable emotions, I make my way back outside, and across the lawn.

Just as I burst through the entrance to the tent, I see them.

Elena is seated at a far table, mask off, glaring after Anastasia. Ana is stalking toward us, a stern look of determination and fury on her face. I can see the blue fire flickering in her irises, through the mask.

What the fuck were they talking about? Why the hell would Elena think it okay to approach Anastasia? Why is Anastasia so mad?

Though I'm angry and flustered, the panic quickly fades when I see her coming toward me, unscathed. I can't get rid of the awful images in my mind. They overcome me when I least expect it, when she's out of my sight for a moment too long.

_Leila isn't here. She isn't going to hurt her._

"There you are," I say to her, and I can hear the relief in my voice. Unconsciously, I think, I frown over her shoulder at Elena.

I need to talk to her.

Surprising me, Ana says nothing, and stalks right past me. What the fuck? Is she angry with _me?_ What the hell did I do? What did Elena say?

She will have to wait. Anastasia is slipping through the entrance of the tent, back onto the lawn now, and I turn, heading after her immediately.

"Ana!" She stops abruptly, turning to face me. I catch up with her quickly, in a few long strides. "What's wrong?"

"Why don't you ask your ex?" she spits.

_Whoa. What the hell._

I feel the corner of my mouth twist in displeasure at her tone with me.

"I'm asking you."

She doesn't say a word, and we stand there, staring each other down, for too long a moment or two.

Something in her eyes falters, and she gives in.

"She's threatening to come after me if I hurt you again-probably with a whip," she barks.

Immediate respite hits me, and shockingly, humor as well.

"Surely the irony of that isn't lost on you?"

"This isn't funny, Christian!" she cries, seeing my ill-hidden amusement.

"No, you're right," I agree with her, "I'll talk to her." I force composure into my expression, still trying to force down that entertainment.

"You will do no such thing," she commands, folding her arms over her chest-which, might I point out, does amazing things to her breasts-and glaring at me.

I blink at her, surprised by her lingering anger. She really is very upset over this.

"Look," she says, "I know you're tied up with her financially, forgive the pun, but-" Abruptly, she cuts herself off, averting her eyes. Goddamn, what is she thinking? "I need the restroom," she finally says, leaving me abreast.

I sigh.

"Please don't be mad," I murmur, "I didn't know she was here. She said she wasn't coming." I reach up to trace her lower lip with my thumb. "Don't let Elena ruin our evening, please, Anastasia. She's really old news."

I'm hoping the last sentence will earn me a few points as I tilt her face up to mine and brush my lips against hers.

Mm... So soft...

She sighs, sweet breath bursting over my cheeks, and flutters her lashes at me.

I straighten and take her elbow.

"I'll accompany you to the powder room so you don't get interrupted again."

It isn't lost on me that the leftover panic from before still thrums in my chest. I'm not letting her out of my sight for the rest of the evening.

.

While Ana's in the restroom, my Blackberry begins to buzz. I pull it out of my pocket to see that Elena is calling me.

I sigh shortly and answer.

"What the hell was that about, Elena?" I snap immediately, my anger spiking unexpectedly.

"Christian-"

"I thought I told you not to talk to her, under any circumstances."

"Well..." She sounds ashamed, but after a momentary silence, she becomes indignant. "I changed my mind."

"Why did you change your mind? I thought we'd agreed."

"She needed to hear some things from me. She needed a warning. I'm worried about you. I just wanted her to know-"

"Well, leave her alone," I demand. "This is the first regular relationship I've ever had, and I don't want you jeopardizing it through some misplaced concern for me."

"Oh, Christian," she whines.

"Leave. Her. Alone. I mean it, Elena."

She's quiet for another minute, and I think she's going to hang up. But then she says: "You have to understand that I come from a place of concern for a friend, Christian. She hurt you so much. I had never heard you so broken up as I did last Saturday. Would you not feel the same if the situation had been reversed, if someone close to her had approached her in warning, out of concern for her as a friend?"

"No, of course not." I feel my frown deepen-of course one would be concerned for her, being involved with me, if they knew how black a soul I have-and I glance up, seeing Anastasia. She's much closer than I expected, and I wonder how much of the conversation she's overheard. "I have to go," I tell Elena, "Good night."

I hang up as she regards me, cocking her head to one side, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

"How's the old news?" she asks.

"Cranky. Do you want to dance some more? Or would you like to go?" I glance at my watch. "The fireworks start in five minutes."

"I love fireworks," she enthuses.

"We'll stay and watch them then." I wrap my arms around her, pulling her close, burying my nose in her hair and inhaling her scent. "Don't let her come between us, please," I whisper.

"She cares about you."

"Yes, and I her... As a friend."

"I think it's more than a friendship to her," she argues.

I pull back slightly, feeling my brow crease. "Anastasia, Elena and I... It's complicated. We have a shared history. But it is just that, history. As I've said to you time and time again, she's a good friend. That's all. Please, forget about her." I plant a kiss on the top of her head, feeling how tense she stands in my arms.

She pulls back, I take her hand, and we amble back toward the dance floor.

.

We stay for the fireworks show-which takes me back to childhood memories once more-bid my family members goodbye, and head back to the car.

I'm exhausted and elated after our evening, despite the happenings with Elena. I feel as I'm basking in a warm glow, happier than I think I've ever been. This evening was... Fun. A lot of fun. I adored getting to spend it with Anastasia, and what I adore more is being able to take her home with me, make love in my bed, and fall asleep with her in my arms... I never want it to stop.

"Are you warm enough?" I ask her as we wait for the car.

"Yes, thank you." She wraps her wrap more tightly around her, hiding that perfect silky skin from my sight.

"I really enjoyed this evening, Anastasia," I indulge her, "Thank you." I mean it from the bottom of my heart. This is better than childhood memories. This is something entirely new, and I'm loving it. As terrifying as it is, it is also exhilarating.

"Me, too," she agrees, "Some parts more than others," she adds, grinning coyly.

I echo that smile and nod in agreement, watching her teeth close down on her bottom lip.

"Don't bite your lip," I warn.

She releases it. "What did you mean about a big day tomorrow?" she inquires suddenly, referring to what I said to Mia earlier, about our having to leave before the 'real party' got underway. Just an excuse for the younger people to bump and grind on the dance floor, really. I've usually long since retired by then.

"Dr. Greene is coming to sort you out," I explain, "Plus, I have a surprise for you."

"Dr. Greene!"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I hate condoms," I explain lowly. I'm sick of their containment. I want to feel her... Every slick, warm, tight inch of her. Some small part of me reminds me she may not be impressed by the impromptu gynecologic appointment I've made in her honor.

"It's my body," she murmurs sourly.

"It's mine, too," I breathe.

She looks up at me, eyes lingering on mine, and I see the undeniable agreement in her eyes. It calls to me, a siren, deep inside, that expression. Suddenly, I want her again.

I'm not expecting it when she reaches up, and I flinch, but force myself not to move. Reminding myself that she knows the boundaries now.

Between her fingers, she pinches the corner of my bow tie, tugging it. I feel it come undone. Her fingers graze my throat as she releases the first button of my shirt, and it sends chills-the good kind-down my spine, straight to my dick.

"You look hot like this," she breathes.

I feel myself smile. "I need to get you home. Come."

When we reach the car, Sawyer hands me an envelope. Confused, I take it, glancing down at it. It's addressed to Anastasia, and I glance over at her as Taylor helps her into the car.

"Got it from a staff member, Sir," he explains.

_No doubt from another secret admirer, I suppose._

I get in after her, sliding across the backseat, and hand the envelope to her.

Taylor and Sawyer slip in front, but I don't take my eyes off Anastasia.

"It's addressed to you," I explain, "One of the staff gave it to Sawyer. No doubt from yet another ensnared heart."

I hear the bitterness in my tone, and don't try to hide it.

She stares down at it for a moment, and then rips it open. As she reads it in the dim car light, I watch her face, watching the expressions pass over it: confusion, ambivalence, understanding, surprise, shock, anger, and back to confusion.

"You told her?" she says when she's finished.

"Told who, what?" I ask, not liking her tone, not liking what it may mean.

"That I call her Mrs. Robinson," she explains snappily.

"It's from Elena?" I feel the rage rattle my chest once more. For fuck's sake that woman is getting on my last nerve! What is with her lately? Why won't she leave Ana alone, despite my asking her to? Multitudes of times? "This is ridiculous," I mutter, "I'll deal with her tomorrow. Or Monday."

Her expression ambivalent, Anastasia slips the note into her clutch and pulls out the Ben Wa balls. She passes them over to me.

"Until next time," she murmurs, her voice low, her eyes dark.

I smirk at her, taking them. I squeeze her hand in the darkness of the car.

Suddenly, I can't wait to get home.


	46. Chapter 46

_**Quickly just wanted to mention that I made a mistake regarding the names of the extra security detail in chapter 43, and that has been resolved. Thanks :)**_

_**.**_

**Sunday, June 12 2011 - very early morning (about half past midnight)**

**.**

Sawyer rides up in the elevator with us. I am blissfully exhausted, floating on air. I don't remember ever attending a party like that-with a woman that I'm crazy about by my side. It was spectacular to see her enjoy everything, and to watch the expression on her face as the extravagant fireworks show filled the night sky. It was a look of awe, almost child-like.

I'm still gloating internally over how the spanking went down-that it was enjoyable, and controlled, and safe. I realize that I have to be careful, regarding these things. If I want to change, a lot about my lifestyle needs to change-in fact the whole 'Dom' part, I'm beginning to understand, is what has to go. If I'm to make a life with Anastasia-which I really would love-I have to give it up.

I'm beginning to realize that it's like an addiction that I'm going to have to detox myself from. But then, haven't I already detoxed myself? Isn't it just the resisting going back now?

The elevator jolts to a stop on my floor, and it interrupts my reverie.

"Come," I say, taking her hand as she lifts her head off my shoulder, "I'll put you to bed."

The three of us step into the foyer, Sawyer slightly ahead, and immediately halt as his hand flies up.

My heart launches into high gear, adrenaline bursting through my veins, and unconsciously I tighten my hold on Ana's hand.

_What is it?_

Sawyer mutters briefly into his sleeve, where his communication device is concealed.

"Will do, T." He turns to face us. "Mr. Grey," he reports, "The tires on Ms. Steele's Audi have been slashed and paint thrown over it."

_Holy fuck! Leila!_

It's the only possibility, and I feel the blood drain from my face when I realize she could still be in the area, even in my apartment, with a gun; Ana, unprotected, at my side. God forbid anything happen to her...

"Taylor is concerned that the perp may have entered the apartment and may still be there. He wants to make sure."

"I see," I can only croak, "What's Taylor's plan?"

"He's coming up the service elevator with Ryan and Reynolds. They'll do a sweep, then give us the all clear. I'm to wait with you, sir."

"Thank you, Sawyer." I pull Ana close, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. "This day just gets better and better..." I sigh, brushing my nose against her ear, relieved that she's safe, for now, and that something was noticed before we even stepped into the apartment.

I'm beginning to trust the new security a bit more.

As I stand there, I realize that _if _Leila is here, she may want to talk to me-isn't that what happened last time? I will not make the same mistake again, in not being there. I need to be with Taylor, and to be available if they find her. To ensure that she doesn't escape again, to ensure that we get her into care quickly and efficiently, so that she's no longer a risk to anyone, herself and more importantly, Ana.

This thought overrules the assurance that she wouldn't possibly be able to apprehend access. New measures have been taken, the doors are being watched. It's a near impossibility that she would have found a way in. Taylor is most likely being over dramatic.

But if there is that chance... I want to be there.

"Listen, I can't stand here and wait. Sawyer, take care of Miss Steele. Don't let her in until you have the all clear. I am sure Taylor is overreacting. She can't get into the apartment."

"No, Christian-you have to stay with me," she protests.

As much is it pains me to do so, I remove my arm from around her shoulders and step slightly away from her.

"Do as you're told, Anastasia. Wait here. Sawyer?"

Ignoring the anxious look on his face, I step through the door to the apartment which he opens for me.

I meet the other men at the service elevators.

"What the hell are you doing in here, Mr. Grey?" Taylor demands upon seeing me, "It's not safe."

"I'm sure you're overreacting, Taylor," I tell him, my voice surprisingly calm, "Do a sweep and we'll see. I want to be here if there is the slightest chance she's here. So that there isn't a repeat of last time." I lift a brow at him.

I see the consensus on his face. He agrees with me there.

Finally he says, "You stay with me."

"Of course," I snap. Taylor trying to take charge is unfamiliar and unwelcome, but I know he means well.

We search every room of the apartment and, of course, come up empty. There is no one here.

"You're okay to bring Miss Steele inside," Taylor consents as he quietly shuts the playroom door behind us. "We'll do a closer sweep of the cupboards and closets, but I'm-"

"Overreacting," I interrupt him.

Taylor, eyes still tense around the corners, shoulders squared, sweeps the hall. "Anything to keep you and Miss Steele safe, Sir."

Discomfiture makes its presence in my abdomen. He hasn't expressed anything like that before.

All I can do is nod, and turn away from him, headed back downstairs.

Alone now, walking through the well-lit main room, I feel an unprecedented chill run up my spine. Just leftover hysteria. Nothing to worry about. She's not here.

I pull open the door, and am met with the end of Sawyer's gun, pointed right at my head.

"All clear," I inform him, frowning. Seriously, dude? You were going to shoot me? I watch him re-holster the gun and step aside to let Ana in.

"Taylor is overreacting," I tell her, offering her my hand, from where she hasn't moved an inch.

She just stands there, staring at me, eyes like saucers, lips slightly parted. Her eyes look a little wet, and suddenly it dawns on me that she's been terrified out of her mind for the past however minutes, since I've been inside. Despite the fact that I knew that I was safe, and that there was no danger, she sure as hell didn't.

Pity, concern and shame flood my chest at the look on her face. I didn't mean to worry her.

"It's all right, baby," I assure her, stepping forward to fold her in my arms. I kiss the top of her head. "Come on, you're tired. Bed."

"I was so worried," she murmurs against my chest.

"I know," I croon, "We're all jumpy."

"Honestly," she says, "your exes are proving to be very challenging, Mr. Grey." I can hear the sarcasm in her voice. At the sound of it, I feel myself relax. She's fine. She's not going to go into shock; she's not going to find any of this too overwhelming. Up until now, I hadn't realized that had been a fear of mine.

"Yes, they are," I agree, remembering Elena and her uncalled for threat toward Ana. Damn that woman. I'm going to need to make time to call her in the morning, before I take Ana sailing. The memory of that particular idea sends a thrill through me. I'm excited to show her yet another of the things I deeply enjoy doing. I know I'll enjoy it even more deeply when she's there with me.

I let her go, but keep her hand, and guide her through the door, into the great room.

"Taylor and his crew are checking all the closets and cupboards," I inform her, "I don't think she's here."

"Why would she be here?" she asks.

"Exactly."

"Could she get in?"

"I don't see how," I tell her, "But Taylor is overcautious sometimes." I think back to what he said in the upstairs hallway, and that itchy, uncomfortable feeling makes its presence known again. Is Taylor becoming more than just staff-but a friend?

"Have you searched your playroom?" she asks softly. Her low voice brings me back from my introspective thoughts regarding Taylor and our possibly budding friendship.

Sudden anxiety peaks and I glance at her, frowning. "Yes, it's locked-but Taylor and I checked."

How will she feel about the fact that I stepped in there again? How do _I_ feel about it? I hadn't really paid attention when I'd been in there; I'd been focused on different matters...

"Do you want a drink or anything?" I ask her.

"No." And I see the exhaustion overcome her once more, shoulders sagging, eyelids heavy. She's had a long day.

"Come. Let me put you to bed. You look exhausted."

We head into my bedroom, and she puts her bag on the chest of drawers. I take a moment to appreciate how it looks, her little, feminine bag on my bureau. I watch her pop it open, to empty it. She pulls out Elena's letter.

"Here." She hands it to me. "I don't know if you want to read this. I want to ignore it."

Is she giving me permission? I suppose so. The curiosity that has been killing me precedes everything else, and I take it, scanning it quickly.

.

_I may have misjudged you. And you have definitely misjudged me. Call me if you need to fill in any of the blanks-we could have lunch._

_Christian doesn't want me talking to you, but I would be more than happy to help. Don't get me wrong, I approve, believe me-but so help me, if you hurt him... He's been hurt enough._

_Call me: (206) 279-6261_

_Mrs Robinson._

_._

I feel my jaw tense as I finish reading.

"I'm not sure what blanks she can fill in," I mutter, feeling suddenly apprehensive. She could tell Ana a lot of things I rather she wouldn't know, and ruin it all for us. "I need to talk to Taylor. Let me unzip your dress."

"Are you going to call the police about the car?" she inquires, turning her back to me.

I push all of her hair over one shoulder, exposing that gentle curve of smooth, pale back to me, skimming my fingers reverently down the span of what I can reach, and undo her zipper.

"No," I answer, "I don't want the police involved. Leila needs help, not police intervention, and I don't want them here." Too much publicity. "We just have to double our efforts to find her." I kiss her gently on the bare shoulder. "Go to bed," I whisper, and leave the room, mostly to abate my desire to take her again.

She's too tempting, but she's obviously knackered, and needs to rest.

And I need to take care of a few things.

.

I spend the next hour and a half or so in my study, doing everything I can to gain an idea on where Leila may be.

I talk to Welch for over an hour, and answer some late night work e-mails, mostly to distract myself from the stress of it all.

We need to find her. We just need to.

It's nearly two when my Blackberry buzzes on my desk, beside the keyboard. Picking it up, I see that it's Elena who is calling-at nearly two in the morning.

"I don't know why you're calling at this hour. I have nothing to say to you," I say in way of greeting.

Elena is not used to my hostility-toward her, at least. It seems to take her a moment to recover. Finally, she murmurs, "I'm sorry, Christian. I can leave a message. I just wanted to tell you something."

"Well, you can tell me now. You don't have to leave a message." The sooner we get this argument over with, the sooner I can move on to more important things. As much as my anger and annoyance tell me this is the most important thing right now, it isn't.

"Please, Christian, just listen to me-"

"No," I snap, "you listen. I asked you, and now I'm telling you. Leave her alone. She has nothing to do with you. Do you understand?"

"Of course I do," she whines, "But I care about you, Christian, as a friend..."

"I know you do. But I mean it, Elena. Leave her the fuck alone. Do I need to put it in triplicate for you? Are you hearing me?"

"Yes... Yes, I'm hearing you."

"Good. Goodnight." I hang up, and slam the phone down on my desk, a little too hard. I run my hand through my hair and sink into my desk chair.

There's a hesitant knock on the door.

"What?" I snap, not looking up, dropping my head into my hands.

Expecting it to be Taylor or one of the other security details, I glance up, and suddenly, when I see it's Ana, I can feel the angry glare on my face. Instantly, it dissipates when I see her.

She stands in the doorway, in just my t-shirt. Her long legs are distracting, and I feel my eyes sweep up and down her body.

"You should be in satin or silk, Anastasia," I whisper, "But even in my t-shirt you look beautiful."

"I missed you," she says, "Come to bed."

I'm suddenly overcome by heart-restricting awe. She is so beautiful, and I am so, so fucking thankful for her. That she's agreed to come back into my life after the unspeakable, even through all this shit with 'my exes' as she calls them. She's a beautiful, beautiful woman, not just physically... And I don't deserve her.

My heart plummets when the realization hits.

"Do you know what you mean to me?" I ask her, standing. "If something happened to you, because of me..." The thought is unbearable, and an unexplained lump rises in my throat. God, all these emotions... I... I feel so deeply for her. She has turned my life around, she _is _meaning for my life, now, and I don't know how I'd get on without her. I honestly, truly to god, don't think I could.

"Nothing's going to happen to me," she croons. She reaches up, and her fingers, smooth and warm, are on my face, running through the shadow of stubble on my cheek. "Your beard grows quickly," she hums.

She runs her fingers lower, along my bottom lip, and down my throat, stopping at the boundary line.

As she does so, I examine her face, trying to make sense of the awe and wonder I see in her eyes, as if she's seeing the fireworks show when she looks into my face. I don't understand it.

Awareness spikes as her fingers move again, and she runs the single tip of one along the line the lipstick makes.

I clamp my eyes shut, feeling my respiratory rate quicken, my heart beat faster... Fear, lust, both of the emotions colliding, they lick up the walls of my belly, set my bloodstream on fire. Adrenaline spikes through my veins.

Hyper-aware of her every movement, I feel her fingers brush over my shirt, down to the next button, the top two already unfastened.

"I'm not going to touch you," she breathes, "I just want to undo your shirt."

My eyes flash open, regarding her, heart pounding wildly, breath shallow, as she very, very cautiously, releases each button from its hole, being sure to hold the material of my shirt away from my skin so she doesn't make direct contact, I think.

I can't focus on what's going on in my head, but the different sensations riot through me, lust mistaken for fear, fear mistaken for lust-I'm not sure. Each in turn raises my body temperature several degrees, quickens my heart and breathing rate, clouds my mind from coherent thought...

Oh, I want this so badly, too badly. I want it too much, and maybe that's why I'm so afraid of it, been afraid it for so long. Because wanting something means having the potential to lose it.

As I think this she undoes the fourth button and smiles coyly up at me.

"Back on home territory," she says, and I can feel the relief that wells up, when I realize that we're on safe ground again.

She skims her finger along my belly, just above my navel.

She pulls my shirt open, and redirects her attention to my cufflinks, removing them carefully. I stare down at her hard, her eyes so focused, that v between her eyebrows slightly pronounced, as she tries so very hard not to touch me.

Something about it saddens me.

"Can I take your shirt off?" she finally asks.

I nod, silently, still overcome by the overriding emotions, unable to make sense of what to do with them.

She lifts her hands and shoves the shirt over my shoulders. I slip the cuffs over my hands, and drop the shirt on the floor.

Clarity returns vivaciously, and I smirk down at her.

"What about my pants, Miss Steele?"

"In your bedroom. I want you in your bed," she says.

"Do you, now?" I tease her, "Miss Steele, you are insatiable."

"I can't think why." Her fingers fold over mine, and she tugs me through the door, abandoning my study, my Blackberry and the lights on behind us. She takes me into the bedroom, where the temperature has dropped several degrees, very notable in my shirtless state.

I glance over at the balcony door, which is cracked open.

"You opened the balcony door?" I ask her, confused.

"No," she says, obviously queried as well.

Suddenly, realization seems to hit her, and as she stares up at me, lips parted, I watch her face pale so suddenly and so severely, I'm sure she's going to faint.

"What?" My tone is much harsher than I've intended. Immediately, the lust is gone, replaced with unbridled tension.

"When I woke..." she explains quietly, "there was someone in here. I thought it was my imagination."

"What?" I say again. Horror fills me, and I walk quickly to the balcony door, peering out. There is no one there. I step back into my bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind me. "Are you sure? Who?" My voice is barely manageable. I want to yell.

"A woman, I think," she says, "It was dark. I'd only just woken up."

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

And here I'd thought Taylor was overreacting. All the while she's been here, possibly, or she got in after the sweep was done. But how? Fucking _how_?

How did she slip past our security?

"Get dressed," I snap at Ana, "Now!"

"My clothes are upstairs."

I yank open one of the dresser drawers and pull out a pair of sweatpants, tossing them at her.

"Put these on."

They are far too big, but I don't fucking care right now. She needs clothes on, because we need to leave, and I'm not taking the time to go all the way upstairs.

I pull a t-shirt on over my head, realizing my Blackberry is still in the study-fuck!-and stride over to the bedside, where there is a phone on the stand. I dial Taylor's quarters.

"Mr. Grey," he answers groggily.

"She's still fucking here."

In five seconds flat, Taylor and Reynolds enter the bedroom.

"Someone was standing at the foot of the bed when Ana woke. The balcony door was open."

"How long ago?" Taylor asks her.

"About ten minutes," she answers, something in her voice shameful, but I don't have time to focus on that right now. She can't possibly think this is her fault.

My mind has organized itself into a series of very organized files, no panic allowed. I'm suddenly thinking of all the things that need done. First things first is getting Anastasia to a safe place, wherever that is. Another is Gail. She is off, but will return soon.

"She knows the apartment like the back of her hand. I am taking Anastasia away now. She's hiding here somewhere. Find her. When is Gail back?"

"Tomorrow evening, sir," Taylor reports.

"She's not to return until this place is secure. Understand?"

"Yes, sir. Will you be going to Bellevue?" Taylor asks.

"I'm not leading this problem to my parents." How stupid does he think I am? "Book me somewhere."

"Yes. I'll call you."

"Aren't we all overreacting slightly?" Ana interjects now.

I glare at her. Does she really not understand the severity of the situation?

"She may have a gun," I remind her.

"Christian," Ana argues, "she was standing at the end of the bed. She could have shot me then if that's what she wanted to do."

Nearly uncontrollable rage clouds my vision at her words. I cannot let myself imagine that.

"I'm not prepared to take the risk," I tell her, and turn to Taylor. "Taylor, Anastasia needs shoes."

While Taylor goes to fetch Ana a pair of more sensible shoes and Ryan guards her, I step into my closet to pack some things, and change into a pair of jeans and pinstriped blazer. I grab a denim jacket for Anastasia and, upon emerging, drape it over her shoulders.

The panic is stirring now, and I just need to get us out of here.

"Come," I say to Ana, gripping her hand and practically dragging her from the room.

"I can't believe she could hide somewhere in here," Ana mutters.

I don't glance at her as I stride through the great room. "It's a big place. You haven't seen it all yet."

"Why don't you just call her... Tell her you want to talk to her?"

"Anastasia, she's unstable, and she may be armed." I'm aware my voice sounds a little irritable.

"So we just run?" she asks dubiously.

"For now-yes."

"Supposing she tries to shoot Taylor?" Ana points out.

"Taylor knows and understands guns," I tell her, trying to hide the disgust in my tone. I hate guns. "He'll be quicker with a gun than she is." If it ever had to come to that. Which I hope it doesn't.

"Ray was in the army," Ana informs me, "He taught me to shoot."

I feel my eyebrows lift in surprise, and turn on her, utterly unable to imagine Ana holding a firearm. "You, with a gun?"

"Yes," she says, chin raised, sounding defensive. "I can shoot, Mr. Grey, so you'd better beware. It's not just crazy ex-subs you need to worry about."

As ever, in the most unexpected time and way, Ana elicits amusement in me.

"I'll bear that in mind, Miss Steele."

I am ever grateful for it, for her ability to bring joy to my life when I find it impossible otherwise.

Taylor intercepts us in the foyer, passing over a small suitcase packed with things for Ana, and her black Converse sneakers.

She smiles at him in thanks, and he answers it quickly and politely.

In the next moment, she wraps her arms around him, hugging him tightly, for a brief moment.

I feel the shock up to my hair follicles, glancing away awkwardly.

"Be careful," I hear her tell him, and again I'm reminded of the brief encounter in the upstairs hallway.

Taylor has always, of course, been my security of choice, but could he be more than that? Not just to me, but to Ana as well?

"Yes, Miss Steele."

I frown at Ana, and then give Taylor a questioning look, who's lips perk up at the corners ever-so-slightly. He adjusts his tie and says nothing.

I let it go. "Let me know where I'm going."

Taylor produces a credit card from his wallet.

"You might want to use this when you get there."

I nod, taking his personal credit card, ignoring that annoying emotion that bubbles in my chest at this thoughtful-but logical-gesture. "Good thinking."

Ryan appears. "Sawyer and Reynolds found nothing," he reports to Taylor.

"Accompany Mr. Grey and Miss Steele to the garage."

Ryan does so, and when we descend into the bowels of the building, the doors open to haunting silence.

The only sound is the buzzing of the fluorescent lights, and it's unsettling.

Quickly, I lead Ana to the R8, helping her into the passenger seat. I slip our bags into the trunk, trying not to look at the Audi, which is a disaster beside us.

I see her staring at it when I climb into the driver's seat.

"A replacement will arrive on Monday," I assure her.

"How could she have known it was my car?" Ana asks distantly.

I glance at her, feeling unsure. It was the car I got for all my subs.

"She had an Audi A3," I tell her, "I buy one for all my submissives-it's one of the safest cars in its class."

"So not much of a graduation present, then," she mutters, a little bitterly I think.

"Anastasia, despite what I hoped, you have never been my submissive, so technically, it _is _a graduation present."

I pull out of the parking space and speed to the exit, punching in the code to release us.

"Are you still hoping?" she barely whispers.

Before I can answer her, the in-car phone rings.

"Grey," I answer.

"Fairmont Olympic," Taylor reports, "In my name."

"Thank you, Taylor," I tell him, and add, "And, Taylor, be careful."

There's a moment of stunned silence, I think, on the other end. Finally he says, "Yes, sir."

I hang up, pulling out onto the main street. I head up fifth, toward the I-5. The Fairmont Olympic is in Seattle, but I want to make sure we're not being followed first. Fear causes me to push the peddle as far as it will go, when we hit the interstate. I realize it's a little reckless, but I'm ignoring that for now. I glance in the rearview mirror constantly, keeping an eye out for any following cars.

_Am I still hoping? That she'll be my submissive?_

No, not in the least. At first, certainly. It was the only thing I'd ever known in the way of a relationship with a woman. Still is, in some ways.

All things are new with Anastasia. In a way, she's made me a new man, opened my eyes to things I couldn't see before, taken off the blinders. She's opened up my world to color, and clearer sight than ever before.

She has never been the woman I expected, or thought she'd be from first impressions, but that's okay. She's unexpected and challenging and brilliant and beautiful and witty, and brilliantly intelligent. She's more than I ever could have asked for, _ever _could have hoped for.

I realize that I haven't answered her question, and I glance over at her. She's staring passively out the side window, and I find myself wondering what she's thinking.

"No," I say, "It's not what I hope for, not anymore. I thought that was obvious." My tone is gentle and low. Part of me is saddened by the fact that she would think that was what I still hope for. I stopped hoping for that the moment she left me.

She looks at me now, her eyes deep and dark. She blinks and wraps my denim jacket tighter around her.

"I worry that, you know... That I'm not enough," she murmurs.

"You're more than enough," I assure her, annoyance flaring at her severe lack of self-esteem. She's the best thing that ever happened to me, can't she see that? "For the love of God, Anastasia, what do I have to do?"

Something flashes in her eyes, and for a moment I think she wants to say something else than the words that spill from her lips next.

"Why did you think I'd leave when I told you Dr. Flynn had told me all there was to know about you?"

I sigh deeply, closing my eyes for a moment, despite the danger it poses. This was the question I was hoping, praying, she wouldn't ask.

For a long time, I don't say anything, trying to figure out how to form my answer, in my head.

_Because I'm a shell of a man, scum of the earth._

_Because I measure up to nothing._

_Because my past is dark, and the events and memories that define me are darker._

"You cannot begin to understand the depths of my depravity, Anastasia," I finally say, "And it's not something I want to share with you."

"And you really think I'd leave if I knew?" she inquires, her voice disbelieving, as if it's a completely ridiculous notion. "Do you think so little of me?"

"I know you'll leave."

"Christian... I think that's very unlikely," she argues, "I can't imagine being without you."

How can she say that? "You left me once," I point out, flinching internally at the darkness it brings on, "I don't want to go there again."

"Elena said she saw you last Saturday," Ana whispers.

"She didn't." I frown. Why the hell would she lie to Ana like that? If she wants things to go as swimmingly for us as she says.

"You didn't go to see her when I left?" Ana asks, and it's clear this is news to her.

"No," I snap, suddenly perturbed. It's directed toward Anastasia, but I know it should really be directed at Elena. "I just told you I didn't-and I don't like to be doubted. I didn't go anywhere last weekend. I sat and made the glider you gave me. Took me forever." My voice fades toward the end, and I remember the long hours spent in my office, putting that model glider together, not eating, surviving solely on coffee, ignoring work for the first time in my life... It was if every fiber of my being depended on putting that glider together.

"Contrary to what Elena thinks, I don't rush to her with all of my problems, Anastasia," I say to distract myself from the dark memories of-can it only have been?-last weekend. "I don't rush to anybody-I'm not much of a talker."

"Carrick told me you didn't talk for two years," she says quietly.

"Did he, now?" I feel my mouth press into a firm line. I feel that oh-so-familiar wall go up, guarding everybody-and maybe even myself-from my emotions.

"I kind of pumped him for information," she admits, having the decency to sound embarrassed. When I glance over, I see that she's staring at her hands.

"So what else did Daddy say?"

"He said your mom was the doctor who examined you when you were brought into the hospital. After you were discovered in your apartment. He said learning the piano helped. And Mia."

I feel fondness break through the wall, crumbling it at the mention of my sister.

I feel my lips, from their hard line, curl into a soft smile.

"She was about six months old when she arrived. I was thrilled, Elliot less so. He'd already had to contend with my arrival. She was perfect."

I remember the day she came home, that tiny cherubic face, and the humongous smile she gave me, the way she gripped my two fingers tighter than I thought possible. "Less so now, of course." I recall her cock-blocking at the ball.

Ana giggles, the sound stunning me with its beauty.

"You find that amusing, Miss Steele?" I ask her, joy filling my heart like a helium balloon at the sound of her laughter.

"She seemed determined to keep us apart," she says.

I can't help but laugh. "Yes, she's quite accomplished." I reach over, squeezing her knee softly through the baggy material of the sweatpants. "But we got there in the end."

Realizing I haven't done it for awhile, I glance in the rear view mirror. Relief floods me when I don't see anyone behind us.

"I don't think we've been followed." I take the first exit off the I-5 and turn toward central Seattle.

When we're stopped at a set of traffic lights, Ana says, "Can I ask you something about Elena?"

I am automatically cautious, and I glance at her. "If you must."

"You told me ages ago that she loved you in a way you found acceptable. What did you mean?"

The caution mounts. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me," she says.

"I was out of control," I explain, "I couldn't bear to be touched. I can't bear it now. For a fourteen, fifteen-year-old adolescent boy with hormones raging, it was a difficult time. She showed me a way to let off steam."

"Mia said you were a brawler," Ana indulges me once more.

"Christ, what is it with my loquacious family?" I blurt. "Actually-it's you." Pulling up to another set of red lights, I turn and narrow my eyes at her. "You inveigle information out of people." Teasingly, I shake my head at her in disdain.

"Mia volunteered that information," she defends herself, "In fact, she was very forthcoming. She was worried you'd start a brawl in the tent if you didn't win me at the auction."

I want to laugh. "Oh, baby, there was no danger of that. There was no way I would let anyone else dance with you." Frankly, I would have bid a million dollars before I let that happen.

"You let Dr. Flynn," she points out.

"He's always the exception to the rule."

.

The Cascade Suite has two bedrooms, a formal dining room, and a grand piano. There is a log fire burning in the main room.

"Well, Mrs. Taylor," I joke, "I don't know about you, but I'd really like a drink." I lock the door behind us.

I stride into the bedroom, depositing our bags on the ottoman at the foot of the bed, then take Ana back into the main room. She warms her hands at the fire as I prepare us each an Armagnac.

I join her by the fire-which is sumptuously warm and welcome-and hand her one of the brandy glasses.

"It's been quite a day, huh?" I ask her.

She nods, and I appraise her face closely, wishing she'd tell me what she's thinking.

"I'm okay. How about you?" she whispers.

"Well, right now I'd like to drink this and then, if you're not too tired, take you to bed and lose myself in you."

A hint of a smile flashes in her eyes. "I think that can be arranged, Mr. Taylor." She smiles shyly at me and bites down on her lip.

I remove my socks and shoes. "Mrs. Taylor, stop biting your lip."

She does, cheeks going pink as she stares down into her glass.

I take a sip and watch her, that lovely shade of pink on her face, and I am again overwhelmed by the strength of her. She really is okay. Totally fine, actually.

She glances up at me.

"You never cease to amaze me, Anastasia. After a day like today-or yesterday, rather-you're not whining or running off into the hills screaming. I am in awe of you. You're very strong."

"You're a very good reason to stay," she mumbles, and her words make my heart soar and clench accordingly, "I told you, Christian, I'm not going anywhere, no matter what you've done. You know how I feel about you."

I feel my mouth twist, and my brow crease. I don't believe her. What does she see in me? After all I've done, all that I am?

I don't deserve this amazing woman, I don't deserve her appreciation, let alone her company.

"Where are you going to hang Jose's portraits of me?" she asks, and I know she's trying to distract me.

"That depends."

"On what?"

"Circumstances," I tell her, hiding most of the truth. I'm planning on asking her to move in with me, I just don't know how to do it. It only makes sense, right? To know that this is temporary deflates me. I don't think I could go back to living separately from her. I suppose I'll let her decide where she wants to hang them, if she agrees to move in with me. And I really hope she will. "His show's not over yet, so I don't have to decide straightaway."

She tilts her head to the side, narrowing her eyes at me. Trying to intimidate me, I suppose.

"You can look as sternly as you like, Mrs. Taylor. I'm saying nothing."

"I may torture the truth from you," she threatens.

I feel an eyebrow lift. "Really, Anastasia, I don't think you should make promises you can't fulfill."

Something in her eyes goes stony, determined. She puts her glass on the fireplace mantel, and much to my surprise, reaches over and plucks mine out of my hand, placing it beside hers.

"We'll just have to see about that," she mumbles.

She takes my hand, and pulls me toward the bedroom. I go along, more than willingly.


	47. Chapter 47

**Sunday, June 12 2011**

**.**

We make love slowly, softly and gently in the hotel king-sized bed.

When we're done, we lie silently in the afterglow, my head on her stomach, her hands in my hair.

"I will never get enough of you," I murmur into her fragrant, silky skin, "Don't leave me." I plant a kiss on her belly, just below her ribs.

"I'm not going anywhere, Christian," she promises me, and the words are like a salve to a wound I didn't know I had, "And I seem to remember that I wanted to kiss your belly." Her voice is soft, faded, sleepy, and I grin.

"Nothing stopping you now, baby."

"I don't think I can move," she barely murmurs, "I'm so tired."

Everything in me is aching for another round, for her mouth on my cock, but I know I'm being greedy, and she needs rest. So I shift, re-positioning myself beside her. I drag the covers over the both of us and gaze down at her, enamored by her.

She looks gorgeous, hair a mess, eyes bright, a gorgeous pink flush across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose.

"Sleep now, baby," I urge her, kissing her hair, then wrapping myself around her. No sooner have I laid my head on the pillow than her breath evens out, slower, deeper, and as I listen to its lullaby, I am overcome by blissful exhaustion too, and I fall into sleep alongside her.

.

I wake a little over six hours later, just after ten in the morning.

I lay there, for a long moment, beside Ana as she sleeps, lips slightly parted, lashes like butterfly wings draped across her cheekbones. Again, I am reminded that I am the luckiest son-of-a-bitch in the world. She is mine, and I am hers, and if luck is on my side, she won't be leaving me anytime soon.

She keeps saying she won't, but something inside me, some reflexive part of me, has a hard time believing it.

I get up and dress, then head into the main room. I reorganize Dr. Greene to come here-which will cost extra, but who gives a fuck?-order breakfast, as well as sift through various work e-mails, with no real commitment. It's a Sunday-aren't Sundays for taking the day off from work? The day of rest and all that?

I do a little research on the Saab dealership, and think about calling, but decide that maybe Anastasia would like to be involved.

The inspiration hit me in the bathroom, while I was brushing my teeth, as I reminisced on our conversation in the car.

No, Ana has never been my submissive. Why replace the typical submissive car, when I can get her something that is all her own? I'll have to call and cancel the order I've already placed, but that's easy enough.

I call both Taylor and Welch for an update-not much in the way of things, unfortunately-and empty the brandy glasses, setting them on the mini bar. I open the curtains, and as I'm doing so, there's a knock on the door.

The person on the other side calls through, "Room service!"

I retrieve our breakfasts, tipping the man, and set them on the table, taking a quick indulgent sip of coffee before I head back into the bedroom.

I'm ravenous, but I need to wake Ana first. Dr. Greene will be here soon.

Ana is on her front in bed, most of her naked back exposed. The sunlight streaming through the window plays with the facets in her skin, and with her hair, casting strange and beautiful shadows across her shoulders and back. Her face is turned toward me, and she breaths deeply and evenly.

I stretch out on the bed beside her, over the covers, and I watch her sleep.

Christ, she's like an angel. My heart swells at the sight of her, and I'm reminded of all the things she's done, tried, and sacrificed for me. No one deserves to have gone through what Anastasia has gone through over the course of our short relationship, and yet she's still here with me, still promising not to go anywhere.

I can't help but reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

She stirs, and I retract my hand immediately, but I've done it now. Her eyes blink open groggily.

"Hi," I greet her, grinning down at her.

"Hi," she responds, cheeks going a little pink, "How long have you been watching me?"

"I could watch you sleep for hours, Anastasia"-and I have before-"But I've only been here about five minutes." I lean over, kissing her softly on the mouth, which is warm and slow to respond. "Dr. Greene will be here shortly."

"Oh." She suddenly seems more alert.

"Did you sleep well? Certainly seemed like it to me, with all that snoring," I tease her.

"I do not snore!" she whines.

"No. You don't," I assure her, grinning.

Her eyes flicker to my neck. "Did you shower?" she asks. Oh, she's looking at the lipstick line... Which I rather like, actually... But I'm ready for a shower, to be honest.

"No. Waiting for you."

"Oh... Okay. What time is it?"

"Ten fifteen. I didn't have the heart to wake you earlier."

"You told me you didn't have a heart at all." Her tone is joking, but it sobers my mood.

I smile sadly.

_No, baby, I don't._

"Breakfast is here," I inform her, "Pancakes and bacon for you. Come, get up, I'm getting lonely out here." I smack her on the ass through the covers and she jumps.

I stand and watch her stretch, the sheet inching down to reveal a teasing glimpse of her breasts, and just the edge of her left nipple... Hmm.

I force myself to turn away and head back into the main room.

Ana takes longer in the bathroom than I've expected, and so by the time she's emerged in one of the fluffy hotel bathrobes, I've eaten my breakfast and am drinking my coffee, reading the _Times._

Seems the gala got a good review, as always.

She sits at the table across from me, and I smile at her.

"Eat up," I urge her, "You're going to need your strength today."

"And why is that? You going to lock me in the bedroom?"

"Appealing as that idea is, I thought we'd go out today. Get some fresh air," I suggest. Fresh, briny, ocean air that is...

"Is it safe?" she jokes, and my mood falls quickly.

This is not a fucking joking matter. Does she not realize that she could potentially be in very real danger?

"Where we're going, it is," I force myself to say calmly, or as calmly as I can, "And it's not a joking matter."

I think my reprimand has made its way across, because she blushes scarlet and looks down at her food. After a contemplative moment, she begins to eat.

I go back to my reading, scanning the stocks and then the comics, for good measure, trying to put Ana's ill-placed joke behind me, but struggling.

As Anastasia is reaching the midway point of her meal, there is a knock at the door.

"That'll be the good doctor." I stand and go to answer it.

.

As I shut the door behind Dr. Greene, I note the expression on Anastasia's face. She looks a little pale, and more than a little fazed.

"Everything okay?" I ask her, wondering how she is with needles.

She nods, not saying anything, and now the curiosity-and the concern-pique. I tilt my head to the side and appraise her more closely.

"Anastasia, what is it?" I demand, "What did Dr. Greene say?"

She shakes her head, brushing me off. "You're good to go in seven days."

"Seven days?" I'm distracted momentarily by the prospect of that. For some reason, I thought it would have been longer.

"Yes."

"Ana, what's wrong?" The anxiety returns. Has she finally gone into shock over it all? Is this where she'll run screaming for the hills? All sorts of possibilities fill my mind, surely the worst. I just wish she'd tell me, so I didn't have to be so concerned.

"It's nothing to worry about," she assures me, "Please, Christian, just leave it."

I step closer to her, tipping her head back by the chin, gently, so that I can gaze into her eyes. Yes, she definitely looks panicked, and the sight of it eggs my own on.

"Tell me." I mean to be gentle, but it comes out harsher than I've intended.

"There's nothing to tell," she insists, "I'd like to get dressed." She pulls her chin out of my grasp.

I sigh, raking my fingers through my hair. It's obvious she's not going to tell me. Damn, I'd like to beat it out of her... Shit, but I can't. I shake the thought from my mind. It's an impossibility. And I know she wouldn't want it. Deep down, I know I don't want it either.

"Let's shower," I finally suggest.

"Of course," she agrees, but she's obviously still distracted. For god's sake, I wish she'd just tell me what's wrong!

"Come." I take her hand and head toward the bathroom.

I turn on the shower, and quickly disrobe, trying to push back the ambush of horrible thoughts. I turn to her now.

"I don't know what's upset you, or if you're just bad-tempered through lack of sleep, but I want you to tell me. My imagination is running away with my, and I don't like it." I undo the sash of her robe.

She rolls her eyes-which earns a glare from me-and relents.

"Dr. Greene scolded me about missing the pill. She said I could be pregnant."

"What?" I hear myself say, all of the blood draining from my face, and fingertips too. I'm aware that I've stopped moving, but all I can really focus on is the panic, much more potent than before, rearing in my mind. The answer was so far from what I expected to hear, and so much worse.

No. No. No no no.

"But I'm not," she blurts, "She did a test. It was a shock, that's all." Yeah, a shock. "I can't believe I was that stupid."

I feel my shoulders relax, from where they've been tensed, nearly touching my ears.

"You're sure you're not?"

"Yes."

I release the breath I've been holding. "Good. Yes, I can see that news like that would be very upsetting."

Her lips turn down into a frown. "I was more worried about your reaction," she admits.

I gaze at her, confused. "My reaction? Well, naturally I'm relieved... It would be the height of carelessness and bad manners to knock you up." The relief has me giddy, cracking jokes.

"Then maybe we should abstain," she snaps.

I stop, my bubble of joy and relief popping. What the fuck? What's her issue? She was the one who seemed so upset about it.

"You are in a bad temper this morning," I observe.

"It was just shock, that's all."

I grip the edges of her robe in my hands, dragging her to me, into an embrace, and I kiss her hair, easing her head against my chest. Hmm... She's warm, her cheek smooth...

"Ana, I'm not used to this. My natural inclination is to beat it out of you, but I seriously doubt you want that."

"No, I don't," she confirms, "This helps." She wraps her arms around my waist and squeezes me tighter.

I let my eyes shut, let myself just be in this moment for once, standing here in front of the shower, embracing the woman I... The woman that I would do anything for.

Finally, I realize that we're going to run out of hot water.

"Come, let's shower." I let her go, and step back to remove the garment.

We step into the chamber together, and I reach for the shampoo, squeezing some into my palm and beginning to lather it into my hair.

Oh, it's been days since I've had a shower, and this feels good...

I hand the bottle to Anastasia, and she takes some, doing the same.

I rinse the soap from my hair, reaching for the bottle of body wash, planning on washing myself first, but a thought hits.

_I could let Ana wash me..._

The internal suggestion is immediately met with a resounding _NO! _but I mostly ignore that, and try to think about it logically.

I let her draw on me with lipstick. It only seems fitting that she wash it off, and I did fine with the boundary lines... As long as she sticks to those...

I turn to her as she is rinsing her own hair, lathering soap in my hands, and I begin to soap her up, lingering on every inch of that flawless, perfect skin. The unfamiliar scent of the soap permeates the air around us. It smells good.

Anxiety mounting as I watch the soap swirl down the drain, from her body, I turn her to face me.

"Here." I pass her the bottle. "I want you to wash off the remains of the lipstick."

Her eyes have been closed up until now, but at my suggestion, they pop open wide. My, I'm sure, anxious, wary gaze is met with blue-eyed shock.

"Don't stray far from the line, please," I beg her, feeling that reaction begin to take hold in my body once more. My heart is pounding so hard I think I'll collapse on the floor of this shower.

"Okay." She squeezes some soap into her palm, and then rubs them together. I watch intently as she brings her hands up toward me, coming down on my shoulders.

Automatically, my breathing rockets, my eyes squeeze shut, and I'm braced for pain, feeling it, though it might not really be there.

Her hands and thumbs rub the lipstick line from my skin in rhythmic circles, but all I can think about is the fear-and it is solely fear now-that ravages my body like a disease. It consumes me, and I try to fight back the flashbacks, but they keep coming, keep overwhelming me.

Why the hell did I think this was a good idea? What possessed me to allow her to do this? Hope? For more?

What a fucking idiot I am.

I can feel her fingers tremble against my skin as she traces the line, which I know flows down the side of my chest, washing me softly.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

I feel my jaw lock shut, my teeth clenched so hard I think they'll burst to dust.

Suddenly, her hands are gone, and the relief is instantaneous. I open my eyes, but she's not looking at me. I can't make out her face very clearly from where her head is ducked down, but she looks... Stricken.

"Ready?" Her voice is tense.

"Yes," I whisper, even though I'm not. I wish she'd just stop now. I'll go another week without showering if it meant she didn't have to touch me any longer.

Suddenly, her hands are on my chest again, and every muscle in my body locks.

_Fuck!_

The panic consumes me once more, whirling in my head, turning everything into a garish gray whirlpool. I can't make out images, only fear, only hateful, disgusting panic.

As she moves down the line, her breath hitches, and automatically, my eyes open.

I'm shocked to see tears coursing down her face.

"No. Please don't cry." It hurts so much to see her so anguished, and I encase her in my arms, hugging her tightly. "Please don't cry for me."

She bursts into sobs, burying her face in my neck, and I hold her as her shoulders tremble, bewildered by her grief. I can't make sense of it. Why is she crying for me? Is she thinking of small, four-year-old me, and how my life was royally and totally fucked-up by a crack whore I was unfortunately birthed to?

I pull away, taking her head in my hands and kiss her on the mouth.

"Don't cry, Ana, please," I beg her, my lips moving against hers, "It was long ago. I am aching for you to touch me, but I just can't bear it. It's too much. Please, please don't cry."

"I want to touch you, too," she whimpers, "More than you'll ever know. To see you like this... So hurt and afraid, Christian... It wounds me deeply. I love you so much."

Where those three words would usually startle me, or cause me to freeze, I'm getting used to them, though she's only said it a few times. Anxiety twists my stomach in knots, and my heart rockets into high gear again, but from fear in a different form.

I run my thumb over her damp bottom lip. "I know. I know."

"You're very easy to love. Don't you see that?" she asks.

"No, baby, I don't."

"You are," she insists, "And I do and so does your family. So do Elena and Leila-they have a strange way of showing it-but they do. You are worthy."

"Stop," I whisper, putting my finger over her lips to stifle her flow of words, which only bring pain and grief. There was potential, before. But not now. Not after what I've become. "I can't hear this. I'm nothing, Anastasia. I'm a husk of a man. I don't have a heart."

"Yes, you do. And I want it, all of it. You're a good man, Christian, a really good man. Don't ever doubt that. Look at what you've done... What you've achieved." Her breath hitches as a sob escapes her. "Look what you've done for me... What you've turned your back on, for me. I know." Her voice lowers to an intense whisper. "I know. I know how you feel about me."

When I think it's impossible for it to beat any harder, any faster, my heart does. It's almost painful in my chest, and I can't draw enough breath.

I stare down at her in silence, feeling how wide and terrified my eyes must be.

She's caught me. I'm caught in her web, staring her down, a deer in the headlights, and I am completely at her mercy, because she's figured me out.

"You love me."

I realize I've stopped breathing now, and I can't feel my heart beating anymore. I can only hear it, the blood pounding in my ears, but I can't feel it. Nor can I feel my fingers or toes. I feel numb with disbelief, numb with panic, numb with vulnerability. I am so exposed in this moment, more exposed than I have ever been in my entire excuse of a life.

"Yes. I do."

Her face broadens in a grin so wide I think it'll split her face in half. Her reaction makes my heart ache, for reasons I can't decipher, and sensation returns.

As I stare into her face, heart still pounding, aching, some unanswerable emotion blooms in her eyes-I can't make sense of it. Before I can begin to investigate it, she reaches up, gripping my face, and crushes her lips to mine.

Her kiss is altogether urgent, completely needful, and I find myself confused by the intensity of it all. It's as if she's pouring everything she has into this kiss, and automatically I am overwhelmed.

She is overjoyed by my confession, so totally opposite from what I felt her reaction would be, and it calls to me on some deep, deep level.

I groan as I feel my body respond, and finally reacting, I wrap my arms around her, beneath the hot water of the shower, which washes over us like a flood, or a baptism.

She is everything to me, my walking savior. I never believed in anything divine until Ana came along, but now, I do. I believe it's a possibility, because she's resurrecting something in me, a man I thought I'd left behind, had died long ago.

"Oh, Ana, I want you, but not here."

"Yes," she breathes, her lips, warm and soft, moving against mine.

I turn off the water. We step out of the chamber, onto the bathmat, and I wrap her in the bathrobe she was wearing before. I snatch a towel from the pile and tuck it around my waist, then pick up a smaller one and begin to dry her hair, rubbing the terrycloth softly through her tresses, damp and slightly curled from the shower.

When it's mostly dry, I swaddle her head in the towel. In the mirror we stand in front of, our eyes lock.

"Can I reciprocate?" she inquires.

Automatically, wariness rises, a reflex I don't know if I'll ever lose, but I nod anyway, trying to ignore the feeling.

I watch her as she takes another small towel from the stack, turns to face me and stretches up on her tiptoes.

As her hands, through the towel, touch my head, massaging my scalp, unexplained giddiness explodes inside me, and I can't stifle my boyish grin.

"It's a long time since anyone did this to me," I say, "A very long time." I frown as I think about it further, pressing the vestiges of my memory for any similarities to this experience. "In fact, I don't think anyone's ever dried my hair," I confirm.

"Surely Grace did?" Ana asks, "Dried your hair when you were young?"

I shake my head back and forth.

_No. Even if I can't clearly remember-which I'm pretty sure I can-I don't think I ever would have allowed her to._

"No. She respected my boundaries from day one, even though it was painful for her." If I think about it hard enough, I can remember the sadness in her eyes as I, the ever-so-independent child, did everything for myself, things that were surely beyond my means, but that I succeeded at doing anyway. "I was very self-sufficient as a child." My voice sounds quiet, veiled by the memories which take me back to my childhood.

Ana is quiet for a moment.

"Well, I'm honored," she finally says. I can hear the smile in her voice.

"That you are, Miss Steele," I tease, "Or maybe it is I who am honored." _Surely it is I._

"That goes without saying, Mr. Grey," she replies smartly.

I grin.

She finishes with my hair, but I'm surprised when she picks up another towel and moves to stand behind me.

_What is she doing now?_

The humor elicited in our former conversation evaporates, replaced by caution once more.

Our eyes meet in the mirror again.

"Can I try something?" she asks.

I feel I've been lenient enough this morning, and hesitate for a moment, but in the next find myself nodding. I can't deny her anything... Well, almost anything. I do have my boundaries. They seem blurred in her presence, however, despite the hysteria that comes on when we push them.

I watch her warily as she lifts the cloth, presses it down on my left arm, and drags it down, soaking up the moisture from the shower.

Warmth, slow and burning, opens up inside me. It feels like lust, but more concentrated, tinged by some other emotion-trust? ...Love?

She glances up into our reflection, her eyes meeting mine once more. I blink at her.

In the next moment, she leans forward and plants a soft kiss on my now-dry bicep, and the action stirs the coals inside me, stoking the fire.

To accommodate my suddenly quickened breath, I part my lips slightly.

She repeats the same actions on my right arm, drying and then kissing.

I feel a smile tug my lips up at the corners.

She moves to my back, careful to stay inside-or outside-the boundaries.

"Whole back," I whisper before I can stop myself, "with the towel." I take a breath and screw my eyes shut, bracing myself for the onslaught of the pain. She dries me quickly, and I wonder if she's taking care to touch me only with the towel.

It's not as bad as I thought, and when she finishes, I sigh out in relief. She leaves another kiss on my shoulder.

She puts her arms around me and dries my stomach. Suddenly, I'm wishing she'd move lower...

"Hold this," she says, handing me a face towel.

I frown at her, confused.

"Remember in Georgia?" she prompts, "You made me touch myself using your hands."

My mood darkens, the lust erupts, at the recall.

She reaches for my hand, and I let her take it. She guides it to my chest, running the towel across my skin as best she can, what with the position we're in.

This is worse, the chest, and I find my heart pounding again, trying in vain to control my breathing, and to keep myself in the moment, to not go back to the horrid memories.

At the same time, the lust roars to an incredible pique.

"I think you're dry now," she finally breathes, dropping her hand, her eyes still on mine in the mirror.

"I need you, Anastasia."

"I need you, too."

"Let me love you," I beg her.

"Yes," she consents.

.

I lead her back into the bedroom, every fiber in my being thrumming with a strange, soft sort of bliss, and of incredible, insatiable need.

I sweep her into my arms, crushing my lips to hers. She sighs against my mouth, her sweet breath washing over my face, and I take advantage of her open lips, easing my tongue into her mouth. She immediately pushes back, her tongue sweeping against mine, and we linger here, in this kiss.

Not as if battling for dominance, but merely... Sharing each other, drinking the other in.

Without parting my lips from hers, I reach down to undo the sash on her bathrobe, and push it over her shoulders. She groans as I take her breasts in my hands. Her nipples immediately pebble beneath my palms, and the feel of it makes my cock twitch under the towel.

She groans into my mouth as I twirl her nipples between thumb and forefinger, her back bowing slightly.

I break the kiss, pulling back slightly so that I can see her eyes, darkened by lust, the irises a storm of color, staring up into mine.

"You are in incredible woman, Anastasia. And you're all mine."

"All yours," she repeats.

I ease her back onto the bed, tugging my towel free and abandoning it on the floor. I crawl up over her, sweeping my hands up her body as I go, feeling every curve of her delectable body.

She hinges on knee, so that as I come to settle over her, her body cradles mine.

I kiss her again, softly, grinding against her, so that she can feel me.

Her eyes widen, and I can feel the slickness of her as I rub against her once more.

Everything around me fades out of focus, and the only thing I _can _concentrate on are those eyes, staring back into mine.

I ease her other leg apart, kneeling up to roll on a condom, and oh so slowly, never taking my eyes off of hers, sink into her.

She gasps as I fill her, those lush lips parting, and I lean in to kiss her, easing almost all the way out, and then back in, taking my time, bathing in this moment, in me, and her, and the declaration I made in the shower.

I can't believe I've exposed myself to her like this, but more than that, I can't believe it's gone over so well. I can't imagine why I've been blessed with her, but I'm not about to question it.

"Faster," she pleads.

I comply, picking up the pace, and as I do, the sensations build, that delicious pressure deep in my body. She begins to quicken around me, her breathing faster, shallower.

"Ana," I pant, and she detonates.

Her explosion sets mine off, and I pour myself into her, groaning unintelligibly into her neck as bliss fills me, and overtakes me.

.

"I wanted to ask you something," Ana says afterwards, as we lay, replete, on the bed. She lays on her stomach, pillow to her chest, and I am sprawled out beside her on my side, a hand on her back.

"Go ahead."

"Your biological father," she begins, "Do you know who he was?"

I feel myself frown. Why the hell would she want to know that?

"I have no idea," I tell her, "Wasn't the savage who was her pimp, which is good," I add.

"How do you know?" she pushes.

"Something my dad... Something Carrick said to me."

She merely looks at me, eyes wide, questioning.

"So hungry for information, Anastasia," I halfheartedly scold her, sighing. "The pimp discovered the crack whore's body and phoned it in to the authorities. Took him four days to make the discovery, though. He shut the door when he left... Left me with her... Her body..." As I speak, I feel myself falling back through time, to when I was a four-year-old boy, left with the reeking, dead body of his poor excuse for a mother, eating frozen peas from the icebox, draping her body in his blanket, playing cars at her side... Waiting for her to wake up... So stupidly dependent on her, and the love she never gave, never showed...

"Police interviewed him later," I say, catapulting myself out of the horrible memories, "He denied flat out I had anything to do with him, and Carrick said he looked nothing like me."

"Do you remember what he did look like?"

His face flashes, clearly, in my mind.

"Anastasia, this isn't a part of my life I revisit very often. Yes, I remember what he looked like. I'll never forget him." The memories overtake me, his abuse, his anger toward the crack whore and myself, and as the clarity of the recall mounts, so does my rage. "Can we talk about something else?"

"I'm sorry," she apologizes-she must see the emotion on my face. "I didn't mean to upset you."

I shake my head at her. "It's old news, Ana. Not something I want to think about."

"So what's this surprise, then?" she asks, changing the subject.

Immediately, my mood lightens at the reminder. Sailing! Oh yes!

"Can you face going out for some fresh air? I want to show you something."

"Of course," she consents.

I grin at her, elated by her agreement. I can't wait to take her out on the water.

I reach over, smacking her playfully on the ass.

"Get dressed. Jeans will be good. I hope Taylor's packed some for you."

.

As we drive through traffic, I am reminded of the car. Glancing at the in-car clock, I realize that we have more than enough time.

"I need to make a detour," I tell her, "It shouldn't take long." I know what I want, unless Ana decides on something else.

"Sure," she mumbles, and I can hear the curiosity in her voice.

I pull into the Saab dealership, and park the car. Once we're situated, I turn to face her.

"We need to get you a new car."

Her jaw drops, just as I suspected it would.

"Not an Audi?" she blurts.

Embarrassment, an unfamiliar emotion, smacks me in the face, zings up my neck, and warms my cheeks.

"I thought you might like something else."

She smirks at me. "A Saab?"

"Yeah. A 9-3. Come." I try to sound defensive, but I don't think I succeed.

"What is it with you and foreign cars?" she demands.

"The Germans and the Swedes make the safest cars in the world, Anastasia," I inform her.

"I thought you'd already ordered me another Audi A3?" she points out.

"I can cancel that. Come," I say again, and climb out of the car. I go to her side and pull her door open for her. She doesn't budge. Uh oh. Is this going to be a fight?

"I owe you a graduation present," I try, offering my hand to her.

"Christian, you really don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do," I insist. She won't have a car otherwise. Besides, there are other reasons I don't wish to share with her at the moment. "Please. Come."

She gives in, taking my hand. I help her out of the car, and we head into the showroom.

.

Sale taken care of, we get back into the car.

As I slide into the driver's seat, Ana says, "Thank you."

I smile, pleased by her cooperation.

"You're most welcome, Anastasia."

I turn the key in the ignition, and the engine and radio come to life once more.

"Who's this?" Ana asks, referring to the song.

"Eva Cassidy," I tell her after a second of listening.

"She has a lovely voice," she comments.

"She does, she did."

"Oh." She sounds sad.

"She died young," I explain.

"Oh," she says again. She sounds as if she's in a far off land, and I wonder what she's thinking. Once I let myself think about it a little, I wish I hadn't.

"Are you hungry?" I ask to distract myself, "You didn't finish all your breakfast." I glance sideways at her. In fact, she left half of it on her plate.

"Yes," she replies quickly.

"Lunch first, then."

.


	48. Chapter 48

**Sunday, June 12 2011 - midday**

**.**

"Mr. Grey! What can I get you this afternoon?" Dante, behind the bar, greets me as I lead Ana into SP's Place, on the marina. I figured we'd eat lunch here before sailing, because it's where I always eat lunch before sailing. They serve good food here, a lot of fresh seafood, and the service is always spectacular.

"Dante, good afternoon," I tell him, smiling easily, as we slide onto two bar stools. "This lovely lady is Anastasia Steele," I introduce him.

"Welcome to SP's Place," he tells her, smiling at her in what I hope is merely a friendly way. "What would you like to drink, Anastasia?"

She glances over at me, expecting me to interject right away, I think, and I remember, for the second time today, that she may want a say in the matter. The concept of allowing her to take the reigns is unfamiliar, still. Hopefully I get used to it as time goes on, because she seems to enjoy my letting her.

"Please, call me Ana," she says, "and I'll have whatever Christian's drinking."

Her response is, as ever, surprising.

"I'm going to have a beer," I tell her, realizing that I don't know whether she likes beer or not, "This is the only bar in Seattle where you can get Adnams Explorer."

"A beer?" she says, almost as if it's a foreign concept, but she sounds interested enough.

"Yes." I smile at her. "Two Explorers, please, Dante."

He nods and gets them for us.

"They do a delicious seafood chowder here," I tell Ana. It feels strange, almost as if I'm asking permission to order for her, though that's not what I'm doing, is it? And why does it make me feel so... Small? I shake off the feelings and focus on the task at hand.

"Chowder and beer sound great," she acquiesces, smiling brilliantly at me.

I'm momentarily blinded by that gilded smile, her beauty.

"Two chowders?" Dante's voice comes through.

"Please." I turn and grin at him once more. I think Dante and I could be friends, in an alternate universe.

As we settle into our meal, we talk, in a way we really haven't before, a deeper, more intimate way. It seems, when I let down my guard to her in the shower this morning, it helped let down my walls in many other ways as well.

Having her know I love her... Makes me feel free. Knowing that she loves me back is... Holy righteousness.

Ana loves me, and I love her...

.

When we're finished, I take her down, along the marina, heading toward _The Grace_ at a leisurely pace, hand in hand.

It's a strange combination of excitement and thrill inside of me. I can't wait to get her on the sailboat, but at the same time, I'm in no rush at all. To just have her here, at my side, walking down the marina, is all I need for the moment.

It is a beautiful day, much nicer than what I could have hoped for, and the sun is bright in the sky, warming the back of my head and neck.

We head along the docks, the boats growing the further down we go, and finally I see her, rigged where she should be. I lead Ana onto the dock, and stop in front of my boat.

"I thought we'd go sailing this afternoon. This is my boat," I announce.

Her eyes widen a fraction, her hand still in mine, as her eyes sweep over the entirety of the catamaran.

"Wow," she breathes finally.

"Built by my company," I share, and I'm aware of the pride in my voice. "She's been designed from the ground up by the very best naval architects in the world and constructed here in Seattle at my yard. She has hybrid electric drives, asymmetric dagger boards a square-topped mainsail-"

"Okay," she interrupts, "you've lost me, Christian."

I grin, realizing that I may have gotten a little over-excited and carried away. "She's a great boat," I summarize.

"She looks mighty fine, Mr. Grey."

"That she does, Miss Steele."

"What's her name?"

I pull her a couple steps sideways, so she can see it scripted across the hull.

"You named her after your mom?" she says, shock apparent in her words.

"Yes." I cock my head to the side, gazing at her. She sounds surprised, yes, but confused also. "Why do you find that strange?"

She shrugs her shoulders.

"I adore my mom, Anastasia. Why wouldn't I name a boat after her?"

Her cheeks go pink. "No, it's not that... It's just..." She trails off, and my curiosity peaks, as well as my annoyance, for some odd reason. I feel very possessive of my mother all of a sudden.

"Anastasia, Grace Trevelyan-Grey saved my life. I owe her everything." And it still isn't enough... I brush the negative thought away. I don't want my shitty self-esteem issues ruining today's fun.

She only stares at me, and I wish I could read what I see in her eyes, but they give nothing away.

"Do you want to come aboard?"

"Yes, please." She grins.

Over the moon at her excitement to be involved, I grasp her hand and lead her up the gangway and on board.

McConnell, as tall and blond as ever, emerges from inside.

"Mac!"

"Mr. Grey! Welcome back," he greets me, and we shake hands.

"Anastasia, this is Liam McConnell. Liam, my girlfriend, Anastasia Steele." It's not the first time I've said it, but it still sends a rush through me when I do.

"How do you do?" she asks him, and they shake hands.

"Call me Mac. Welcome aboard, Miss Steele."

"Ana, please," she insists, flushing.

"How's she shaping up, Mac?" I ask now.

"She's ready to rock and roll, sir."

"Let's get under way, then."

.

I take Ana on a quick tour, showing her in the inside of the cabin-the L-shaped cream leather sofa, the panoramic view of the ocean through the window above it. The kitchen area off to the left, done in pale wood.

"This is the main saloon. Galley beside," I explain to her as she gazes around the room.

I grasp her hand in mine and take her through to the main cabin.

"Bathrooms on either side."

I open the door in front of us and lead her into the bedroom. Suddenly, the king-sized bed looks very welcoming... And not just to sleep in.

"This is the master cabin. You're the first girl in here, apart from family. They don't count," I say, gazing down at her, aware that my lustful feelings must be showing in my eyes, because suddenly her irises darken, her pupils dilate... Oh, baby, if we had time... But don't we? Don't we have all day?

Her cheeks flush, as if she's aware of my darkened thoughts.

I can't resist taking her in my arms, pulling her to me, pushing my hands through her hair, and kissing her, deeply. By the time I pull back, we both need to catch our breath.

Yes, I will definitely make time.

"Might have to christen this bed," I murmur against her lips, warm and soft. "But not right now. Come, Mac will be casting off."

I take her hand once more, and we head back through the saloon.

"Office in there," I point to the door, "and at the front here, two more cabins."

"So how many can sleep aboard?" she asks.

"It's a six-berth cat. I've only ever had the family on board, though. I like to sail alone. But not when you're here. I need to keep an eye on you," I halfheartedly joke. I do immensely enjoy spending my time with her, all of it if I could. I also do need to keep an eye on her. Don't want her falling into the ocean... Can she even swim?

I reach into a nearby chest and produce a bright red lifejacket.

"Here." I pull it over her head, tightening the straps, buckling her in, nice and tight... And as I do so, I feel a smile playing on my lips. Why do I get so much enjoyment from strapping her into things? A lifejacket? Hardly kinky, Grey.

As if able to read my thoughts she says, "You love strapping me in, don't you?"

"In any form," I agree, my smile intensifying. Exaltation is steadily expanding inside my chest. Oh, how I love sharing the things I love with the girl I love more.

"You are a pervert," she states.

"I know." I lift my eyebrows and can't fight the grin that threatens to split my face in two.

"My pervert."

"Yes, yours," I vow.

I grab the sides of her secured lifejacket and kiss her again, hard but quick. "Always," I add.

.

We head back on deck to find Mac dealing with the ropes.

"Is this where you learned all your rope tricks?" Ana asks me, her voice far too naive-on purpose.

"Clove hitches have come in handy," I indulge. "Miss Steele, you sound curious. I like you curious. I'd be more than happy to demonstrate what I can do with a rope." I smirk at her, and am horrified, my mood immediately plummeting, when she gives me a stricken look.

_Shit! I was only joking! I've fucked up now._

"Gotcha!" she blurts, grinning.

The horror shifts immediately to anger, tinged by humor I try to ignore, and I feel my eyes narrow.

"I may have to deal with you later, but right now, I've got to drive my boat."

I sit down at the controls, flicking on the ignition. The engines roar to life, a deep, throaty sound, and the sensation of the hull vibrating underneath me immediately soothes me. I take a deep nose full of the salty ocean air. Ah...

Mac jumps down to the deck below, unfastening some rope there.

I pick up the receiver, radioing the coast guard once Mac calls that we're set to go.

Steadily, I ease the cat out of her berth, and into the marina. I can hear the waves lapping at the bowl below.

As we pull away, Ana waves back to some of the small children watching on the dock, along with a larger group of people. The sight makes me think back to this morning's discussion after the doctor, and my heart lurches-and not in a good way.

I reach for her, pulling her between my legs, pointing out some of the basic dials on the control panel, giving her a basic rundown.

"Grab the wheel," I suggest, though it comes out more like a command. Old habits die hard.

"Aye, aye, Captain!" she giggles, gripping the wheels in her small hands.

I drape mine over hers, steering us out of the marina. Within a matter of moments, we are out on the glorious open sea of Pudget Sound. The marina wall behind us, we are left to the elements, and the wind is stronger out here, the sea choppier beneath us.

We curve left, toward the Olympic Peninsula. The wind is behind us now, and another thrill runs through me.

"Sail time," I report. "Here-you take her. Keep her on this course."

She gives me a horrified, lost look, and I grin at her.

"Baby, it's really easy," I assure her, "Hold the wheel and keep your eye on the horizon over the bow. You'll do great; you always do. When the sails go up, you'll feel the drag. Just hold her steady. I'll signal like this"-I drag a finger across my throat-"and you can cut the engines. This button here," I tell her, pointing. "Understand?"

"Yes." She nods spasmodically, the anxiety clearly written on her face, her eyes wild blue.

I kiss her, then head up to the front with Mac, undoing sails, releasing ropes, operating the winches and pulleys. Oh... This is the life. I am reminded, again, that I really don't do this often enough. When I'm out here on the water, there isn't a single problem in my life. It's just me and the ocean air and clear blue water, and my thoughts-which, as time progresses, are becoming more and more positive.

I can't help but attribute that to the woman who is driving my boat right now.

Mac and I hoist the mainsail now, and as the wind takes hold of it, the boat lurches forward. The drag.

We position the head sail as well, and I watch with wonderful fascination-as I do every-time-as it flurries up the mast, to join the mainsail.

"Hold her steady, baby, and cut the engines!" I yell to Ana, giving her the signal.

She nods, staring at me for a heart-throbbing moment. Then she switches off the ignition, and we soar across the water, flying, and my heart is too.

.

As I make my way back up to the wheel, I note that Ana's cheeks are flushed, her eyes excited as she takes in the speed, our surroundings.

I'm abruptly overwhelmed by the beauty of her, once more. But here, now, it's different. She looks absolutely carefree, wondrous, and the joy on her face reminds me of the portraits the photographer has captured of her.

Oh, my Ana... How I've waited to see this in you.

It took awhile, but I can feel it now. We're settling into our own little groove, and as I've let my walls down, she seems to be letting some of hers down too, becoming more comfortable in my presence.

It saddens me to think that she ever wasn't, but I suppose it was true. My old lifestyle wasn't for her, and apprehension fills me once more as the thought of it fills my mind.

Being a Dominant was a love of mine, the thing I held with nearly the highest esteem in my life-other than my company-and leaving it behind is like... An addiction. I adore it so much, but it came to inflict too much damage on the life of the woman I love, and in turn, on mine.

I don't know if I can regard it the same way I did, ever again.

I push the thoughts away and approach her now, still standing at the wheel. I put my hands over hers, pressing my chest to her back, inhaling the scent of her, and the ocean, and I'm at home.

"What do you think?" I call to her over the noise.

"Christian! This is fantastic!" she cries.

I grin. "You wait until the spinney's up," I encourage her. I gesture toward Mac with my chin, who is undoing the spinnaker.

"Interesting color," she calls as the deep, rich red sail unfurls.

I give her an evil grin and a wink.

As the spinney catches the breeze, finding her head, we pick up speed.

"Asymmetrical sail," I explain, "For speed."

"It's amazing." I watch her face again, for a moment. She is grinning widely, the exhilaration clear on her face, little pieces of hair skipping over her cheeks and forehead. "How fast are we going?"

"She's doing fifteen knots," I tell her.

"I have no idea what that means."

"It's about seventeen miles an hour."

"Is that all?" she shouts, "It feels much faster."

The fact that I can see how much she's enjoying this makes me want to jump for joy, or shout out. I can hardly contain my excitement. It's larger than I've ever felt it before. I feel so at peace with her here with me. I didn't know I could ever feel this way, and I never want to let her go.

I squeeze her hands over the wheel. "You look lovely, Anastasia. It's good to see some color in your cheeks... And not from blushing. You look like you do in Jose's photos."

She turns in the small space my arms allow and kisses me.

"You know how to show a girl a good time, Mr. Grey."

"We aim to please, Miss Steele."

I move her hair out of my way, kissing the back of her neck.

"I like seeing you happy," I murmur against the warmth of her skin, and I tighten my arms around her, as we skim across the water.

.

An hour later, we anchor on a small, secluded cove off Bainbridge Island. I send Mac ashore in the inflatable dinghy-making up some lame excuse I don't even hear.

As soon as he's off the ship, I nearly drag Ana down to my cabin.

I am on a mission, and we can make this fast. But not too fast. I want to bask in it. This will be the first time I've ever made love to a woman on my boat, and I want it to be Ana, and only Ana, forever.

I remove the lifejacket and toss it aside, staring down at her, trying to communicate how much I want her, need her, through my eyes.

I lift a hand to her face, running my fingers down her cheek, her chin and the column of her throat, reveling in the silkiness of her skin, the perfection of her bone structure. My hand moves lower, down her sternum, to the first button of her blue blouse.

"I want to see you," I whisper, undoing the button one handed.

I kiss her softly on her parted lips. She is panting already.

I take a small step backwards.

"Strip for me."

Instead of seeing shyness in her eyes, she seems to welcome the opportunity full-heartedly. Keeping her gaze on mine, she releases each button from it's hold.

Oh, God, I want her so much. The desire, heady and sweet, sweeps through me, taking hold of my entire being. In this moment, it's just me and her.

Finishing with the buttons on her shirt, she pushes it over her shoulders and lets it fall to the floor. She stands before me in her jeans and a new, white lacy bra, the fabric cupping her breasts perfectly, pushing them up slightly.

My fucking lord, she's perfect. In every single way. My eyes sweep over her exposed torso, taking in the flawless swell of her breasts, the flat plane of her belly, which subtly flows, expands into the curve of her hips, which disappears under the belt line of her pants.

She reaches for the button on her jeans.

"Stop," I order her. "Sit."

She lowers herself onto the edge of the bed, and I drop to my knees in front of her, undoing the laces of her sneakers, pulling them off, and then her socks.

I take her left foot in my hands, kissing the pad of her big toe, then grazing my teeth against it.

She moans sharply, just as I thought she would-I got such a good reaction the last time-and I stand, holding my hand out.

She grasps it and I pull her to standing.

"Continue."

She releases the zipper of her jeans, hooking her thumbs into the waistband. She wiggles her hips suggestively as she eases them down, and I can't help the small smile of entertainment that makes its way onto my face. Her playfulness is liberating.

Pants off, she stands before me in the matching thong to her bra, and the sight of her nearly knocks me to my knees. She is too perfect. I have not done anything in my life to deserve a woman like Anastasia. I am overwhelmed, time and time again, by just how lucky a son-of-a-bitch I am.

She reaches for the hook on her bra, unclasping it, and then slipping the straps off her arms, the cups falling away, revealing those amazing breasts to me. Her nipples are hard already, pert and pink.

She drops the bra on the top, and steps out of the panties too.

And there she stands, completely bare and unashamed, before me.

If I could think of something to say, I wouldn't be able to get it out. So I just say nothing, staring at her in complete awe. I am so in love with her. The depth of the feeling surprises me.

I think I've been fighting it, feeling it but suppressing it, for a long while now. But having admitted it this morning, it's spawned a whole new level of sensation inside me, and to allow myself to feel it now is amazingly terrifying, but sweet and gentle and warm, too. My being aches with the strength of it, too much for one man to hold.

I remove my sweater and t-shirt, then my shoes and socks. I reach for the button of my jeans, but she steps forward, reaching for it.

"Let me," she breathes.

Oh, so now she's taking control. I'm surprised by now much I like it. I smile at her. "Be my guest."

She slips her fingers inside the waistband of my jeans, surprising me with her bravery, and tugs so that I'm forced to take a step closer to her. A gasp escapes me, surprised at her sudden bravado. Her eyes are blue fire as she undoes the button, and pauses to trace my hard-on through the denim.

Even through the material, I can feel her warmth, and I push my hips into her palm, reveling in her perfect touch.

"You're getting so bold, Ana, so brave," I whisper, reaching up to grip her face, bending to kiss her passionately. She's blooming, and the witnessing of it is brilliant.

I feel her hands on my hips. "So are you," she murmurs against my mouth, her thumbs rubbing tantalizing, seductive circles against my skin.

I smile. "Getting there."

She undoes the zipper of my jeans, finally, and her fingers creep, down to my erection, and she takes me in her hand, tightly.

I groan as she holds me, enchanted by the spell her touch washes over me, and I kiss her again, needing to feel that connection.

She strokes me, holding me tightly, in that perfect, perfect way. I honestly couldn't do it better myself.

I wrap my arms around her, one hand flat on her lower back, easing her closer to me. My other hand is braided through her hair, holding her face to mine.

"Oh, I want you so much, baby."

Unable to wait any longer, I step back and remove my jeans and boxers in one fluid motion.

As I stand there, in front of her, her expression changes as she stares at my body, softening, deepening, growing dark.

"What's wrong, Ana?" I reach up to stroke her cheek with my knuckles.

"Nothing," she dismisses, "Love me, now."

_Of course._

I sweep her into my arms, melding my mouth to hers, hands in her hair once more. Our tongues sweep, entangle, as I walk her backward to the bed, and lower her down onto it. I stretch out on my side next to her.

I duck my head, brushing my nose along her jawline, inhaling her luxurious scent.

"Do you have any idea how exquisite your scent is, Ana? It's irresistible." I drag my nose down her throat, taking in another breath of her, and across her breasts, kissing her in adoration as I go. "You are so beautiful." I take one of her nipples between my lips, sucking gently.

She moans, her back bowing, and the sound is music to my ears.

"Let me hear you, baby," I encourage her.

I put a hand on her, trailing it down the curve of her waist, basking in the softness of her skin against my hand, exploring the areas I've explored so much of, but will never tire of. Over her hips, her behind, down her leg to her knee, kissing her breasts the whole time.

I hook a hand behind her knee, and pull it suddenly, to hitch it over my hips. She gasps at the suddenness of it, and I grin against her right nipple.

I roll, bringing her with me so that she's straddling me, and I hand her a foil packet.

She shifts down my body slightly, taking me in her hands. Suddenly, she swoops down, taking me in her mouth, and my eyes nearly roll back in my head at the sensation.

_Oh fuck. Warm and wet and tight..._

She swirls her tongue around me, spiking the sensation, and unconsciously, I flex my hips, pushing myself deeper into her mouth.

She sits up, gazing at me, and I'm struggling to breathe properly.

She tears open the condom and unrolls it over my dick, hard and throbbing. Oh, I need to be inside her...

I offer my hands to her. She takes one, positioning herself with the other, and then oh-so-slowly, reverently, she lowers herself onto me.

I groan, squeezing my eyes shut as she surrounds me. Nothing, nobody, will ever mean as much to me as Ana does. Never.

I grip her hips, moving her up, then down, pushing into her at the same time. Oh, yes. It's deeper this way.

"Oh, baby." I sit up, and it changes the angle, pushing me deeper. She must feel it too, because she gasps at the sensation, and I feel her hands on my upper arms. I clasp her head in my hands, gazing into those eyes so blue, so clear, so open and vulnerable. She is willing to share every part of herself with me, and I'm learning, that it's not so scary to let her into most parts of my life as well.

"Oh, Ana. What you make me feel." I kiss her again, pouring every ounce of my love, myself into it, and she kisses me back.

"Oh, I love you," she murmurs.

I groan, not expecting the flurry of emotion that fills me at the sound of her words. It's almost... Painful.

I roll, pinioning her beneath me. She wraps her legs around my waist.

I stare down at her, wondering if I will ever be able to say those words back to her. She stares into my eyes, so full of trust and adoration, and reaches up to touch my face.

Slowly, I start to move, closing my eyes, moaning softly.

I drape myself over her, getting as humanly close to her as I can, kissing her as I thrust in slow, even movements, using the gentle sway of the boat to guide me.

I kiss every part of her I can, her mouth, her chin, her jaw, her ear, our mingling breaths accelerating as I pick up the pace, the pressure, the sensations, building, building, to an undefinable, blissful degree.

Underneath me, she begins to quiver, her breaths harsher.

"That's right, baby... Give it up for me... Please... Ana."

She cries out my name as she falls apart, and I groan, as her undoing is mine.

.

It is early evening. The sky is still bright, not quite sunset, but the water is dark, as, my hands on hers, we steer ourselves into the marina. Winking lights on the other boats welcome us, reflecting in the water.

A crowd gathers, not uncommon, as I turn the boat around and reverse into the same berth we left vacant hours ago. Mac jumps onto the dock, tying us securely to a bollard.

"Back again," I murmur, and my mood darkens ever-so-slightly. Back to real life, back to the drama that is Leila.

"Thank you. That was a perfect afternoon," she says lowly, shyly.

I grin at her. "I thought so, too. Perhaps we can enroll you in sailing school, so we can go out for a few days, just the two of us," I suggest.

"I'd love that," she agrees, "We can christen the bedroom again and again."

I plant a kiss under her ear. "Hmm... I look forward to it, Anastasia... Come, the apartment is clean. We can go back." While Ana was still in the cabin, after we made love, Taylor called and reported they had discovered a breech in the fire escape, and that must have been how Leila had gained access to the apartment.

"What about our things at the hotel?" she asks.

"Taylor has collected them already," I explain. "Earlier today, after he did a sweep of _The Grace_ with his team." While we were out, buying the car, and eating lunch.

"Does that poor man ever sleep?" Ana asks.

"He sleeps. He's just doing his job, Anastasia, which he's very good at. Jason is a real find."

"Jason?"

"Jason Taylor," I elaborate.

Caught up in some thought, she smiles softly.

"You're fond of Taylor," I observe.

"I suppose I am." she says, and I frown, not liking her response. "I'm not attracted to him, if that's why you're frowning. Stop."

I'm not convinced.

"I think Taylor looks after you very well," she says, "That's why I like him. He seems kind, reliable, and loyal. He has an avuncular appeal to me."

"Avuncular?" I repeat.

"Yes."

"Okay, avuncular," I say, testing the word in my mouth.

She laughs, unexpectedly. "Oh, Christian, grow up, for heaven's sake," she snaps.

My mouth automatically pops open, appalled at her sudden outburst, but then I frown, considering her statement.

"I'm trying," I finally tell her.

"That you are. Very," she says, her voice soft, but then rolls her eyes at me.

"What memories you evoke when you roll your eyes at me, Anastasia," I tell her, grinning.

She smirks. "Well, if you behave yourself, maybe we can relive some of those memories."

Humor curves my lips. "Behave myself? Really, Miss Steele-what makes you think I want to relive them?"

"Probably the way your eyes lit up like Christmas when I said that."

"You know me so well already."

"I'd like to know you better."

I smile at her reverently. "And I you, Anastasia."

.

We decide to have dinner before heading back. We stop at a small Italian bistro close to SP's. It's an unexpectedly modern place, done in black-and-white's mostly.

We are seated in a booth, trying to decide what to eat, sipping on Frascati.

I gaze at Ana across the table, in the dim lighting. Her hair is slightly messy, whether it's from being windblown or after our rendezvous in the cabin, I don't know. But it has slightly more volume. Her eyes are still bright from our adventures this afternoon, her cheeks flushed. She appears to have gotten some sun, as well.

She glances up, catching me staring.

"What?"

"You look lovely, Anastasia. The outdoors agrees with you," I tell her.

Her cheeks turn pinker. "I feel rather wind-burned to tell the truth," she admits, "But I had a lovely afternoon. A perfect afternoon. Thank you."

I smile easily at her. I had a perfect afternoon, too. "My pleasure."

"Can I ask you something?" she says.

The usual apprehension that would rise when she asks a question like that, doesn't this time. "Anything, Anastasia. You know that." I tilt my head to the side.

"You don't seem to have many friends," she observes, "Why is that?"

I shrug, frowning. "I told you, I don't really have time. I have business associates-though that's very different from friendship, I suppose. I have my family and that's it. Apart from Elena."

Surprisingly, she ignores my mention of Elena. "No male friends your own age that you can go out with and let off steam?"

"You know how I like to let off steam, Anastasia. And I've been working, building up the business. That's all I do-except sail and fly occasionally." What else is there to do?

"Not even in college?" she pushes.

"Not really."

"Just Elena, then?"

I nod carefully.

"Must be lonely," she says.

I feel my lips curl up in a small smile. She honestly has no idea. I had never felt the need for friendship, and it's not something I particularly need, now. But then, I hadn't realized what I wanted in a woman-that I even wanted a woman, period-until I met her. I decide to change the subject. "What would you like to eat?"

"I'm going for the risotto," she states.

"Good choice." I wave the waiter over.

We place our orders, and when the waiter has walked away, I note that Anastasia looks... Uncomfortable. She shifts in her seat, hands in her lap.

"Anastasia, what's wrong?" I ask her, "Tell me."

She looks up, her apprehensive eyes meeting mine.

"Tell me," I say, my curiosity peaking. I hate when she doesn't tell me things. I realize that it's not just concern anymore, but anger... Or is it fear?

She takes in a noticeable breath. "I'm just worried that this isn't enough for you," she admits, "You know, to let off steam."

Yes, it's definitely anger now. "Have I given you any indication that this isn't enough?"

"No."

"Then why do you think that?" I demand.

"I know what you're like. What you... Um... Need." She stammers over her words.

I close my eyes, rubbing my forehead, trying to reign in some of the anger.

"What do I have to do?" I ask, forcing my voice to sound composed, though now it sounds too soft, almost ominous, I think. Like the calm before the storm. I can't explode on her.

"No, you misunderstand-you have been amazing," she assures me, "and I know it's just been a few days, but I hope I'm not forcing you to be someone you're not."

"I'm still me, Anastasia"-no matter how much I wished I wasn't-"in all my fifty shades of fucked-up-ness. Yes, I have to fight the urge to be controlling... But that's my nature, how I've dealt with life. Yes, I expect you to behave a certain way, and when you don't it's both challenging and refreshing. We still do what I like to do. You let me spank you after your outrageous bid yesterday." I find myself smiling at the memory. "I enjoy punishing you. I don't think the urge will ever go... But I'm trying, and it's not as hard as I thought it would be."

I wasn't expecting myself to go off on such a tangent, but there it is.

I watch Ana squirm and flush in her seat. "I didn't mind that," she whispers, smiling coyly, referring to the spanking in my childhood bedroom, I think.

"I know." I try not to, but my lips curl into a smile anyway. "Neither did I. But let me tell you, Anastasia, this is all new to me and these last few days have been the best in my life. I don't want to change anything."

"They've been the best in my life, too, without exception."

Her words expand something in my chest, and in response, my grin widens.

"So, you don't want to take me into your playroom?" she asks.

I feel the blood drain from my face, and I swallow hard. "No, I don't."

"Why not?" she breathes.

"The last time we were in there you left me." My voice is quiet, understated, "I will shy away from anything that could make you leave me again. I was devastated when you left. I explained that. I never want to feel like that again. I've told you how I feel about you."

"But it hardly seems fair," she argues, "It can't be very relaxing for you-to be constantly concerned about how I feel. You've made all these changes for me, and I... I think I should reciprocate in some day. I don't know-maybe... Try... Some role-playing games." She's stuttering again, her face crimson.

"Ana, you do reciprocate, more than you know. Please, please don't feel like this," I beg her. "Baby, it's only been one weekend. Give us some time. I thought a great deal about us last week when you left. We need time. You need to trust me, and I you. Maybe in time we can indulge, but I like how you are now. I like seeing you this happy, this relaxed and carefree, knowing that I had something to do with it. I have never-" Abruptly, I cut myself off, running a hand through my hair. "We have to walk before we can run." I smirk, remembering how Flynn uses those same words so often.

"What's so funny?"

"Flynn," I explain. "He says that all the time. I never thought I'd be quoting him."

"A Flynnism."

I laugh. "Exactly."

The waiter returns now, our starters and bruschetta in hand, and the interruption relaxes me. We settle into easier conversation as we make our way through our appetizers and meals.


	49. Chapter 49

_I am so so sorry for my abrupt, unexpected, extended absence! My computer was out of commission, and it__'s finally up and running now. _

_I really wanted to get another chapter to you guys before the New Year, and I think I've succeeded._

_All is well-as I hope is with all of you!_

_xoxo_

_._

**Sunday, June 12 2011 - evening**

**.**

I lose myself in thought as we make the drive home.

This day has been amazing, yes, but now the darker thoughts are creeping in-the doubtful, jabbing, negative voices that remind me she still doesn't know enough about me. Parts that I am not willing to share with her.

She saw a jubilant, carefree man on _The Grace _today, but that's not who I am... Is it? It feels strange, to be able to have these carefree moments with Ana. In them, I feel wholly and totally myself-but who I'm acting like is so totally _un_like myself. It's shocking and humbling and rejuvenating. Again I'm reminded of the fact that she seems to be making in me a new man, every day that we're together.

I'm reminded again that I can never wholly become this new, jubilant, loving, carefree man she-god knows how-seems to see in me. There is too much darkness, I'm too fucked up. It is an impossibility.

But oh, how I wish it weren't. Because I want to be that man I become when I am with her. I long for it, ache for it, with every fibre, deep down in the soul I'd thought I'd lost.

As it is, we always come back to this... The life I've brought Ana into that has darkened her, but at the same time has enlightened her. She has met every obstacle so far head on, with far more strength I assumed she had. My wealth, my teeth-gritting fame, the contract, my lifestyle and the many mini-obstacles that came with it, and now... Leila.

I am suddenly on high alert, acutely aware of my every surrounding, as we enter the outskirts of my neighborhood. And I am looking for her, searching with eyes I wish could see through walls. I trust Taylor and his team, but she's gotten past them before. It stands to reason, doesn't it, that she could do it once more. And one more time I cannot spare, for that one more time could be too late.

After our long, languid day of lovemaking, boating and eating, the tension slips in, slithering itself between my bones like an old friend that you actually hate. Tension, apprehension, stress, is my near-constant companion, especially as of late. It lifts my shoulders, and tightens my hands around the steering wheel. I scan every young brunette on the sidewalk with intensely close inspection, but none of them are Leila.

I pull into the underground parking garage and park in the usual spot, seeing that Sawyer is here, patrolling. I ordered him to be down here upon arrival ahead of time, but despite knowing he'd be here, I am unexpectedly relieved for the extra guard, the spare set of eyes, and hands, and ears, to protect Ana.

She greets him as he opens the passenger side door for her.

"Miss Steele," he greets her, and then to me, "Mr. Grey."

"No sign?"

"No, sir," he replies.

I nod. Somehow this makes it worse, and the tension rears its ugly head, making me angry, on edge. I grip Ana's hand and pull her toward the elevator. Paranoia has me believing she could be around every corner, armed and ready to take us off guard.

Once we're safely behind the closed doors of the elevator, I turn to regard Anastasia.

"You are not allowed out of here alone. You understand?" I'm aware I sound harsh, cruel even.

"Okay," she says, and something about her expression makes me think she's suppressing a smile. Instead of being angered by it, I find myself fighting amusement in my own expression. The mischief, the sparkle in those blue eyes, is impossible to resist.

"What's so funny?"

"You are," she replies, as if it's obvious.

"Me? Miss Steele? Why am I funny?" Playfully, I pull my lips into a pout.

"Don't pout," she orders, her voice suddenly soft, her eyes just slightly unfocused.

"Why?" I ask.

"Because it has the same effect on me as I have on you when I do this." And then she chomps down on that lush, lower lip.

I feel my eyebrows lift in surprise. "Really?" Deliberately, I pout again, and bend to kiss her swiftly. Or, I mean to kiss her swiftly. But when her lips meet mine, a torch is lit between us, and the elevator shaft goes up in flames.

In a nanosecond, our hands are on each other-hers in my hair, mine on her face, pushing her back against the elevator wall with my body. Our tongues meet, twisting around each other, and I can taste her and she tastes divine.

Everything inside me rises to the surface like a flush, and I'm suddenly aware of every emotion I am feeling-passion, desire, lust, _love,_ anxiety, stress, tension, anger, always anger in one form or another.

The _ping_ and halt of the elevator interrupts us. The doors open, and I reluctantly pull away from the kiss.

"Whoa."

"Whoa," she responds, cheeks flushed, pulling precious air into her lungs.

I stare down at her for a moment, enamored by her beauty, and the passion that seems to mirror my own.

"What you do to me, Ana," I murmur, running my thumb along her lower lip.

She kisses the corner of my mouth. "What you do to me, Christian."

Her words fan the flames inside me, and I'd like to get her to bed. Immediately after I've been debriefed. I release her from the wall, and take her hand in mine. "Come."

When we step into the foyer, Taylor is waiting, and I wonder how long he's been standing there. I didn't see him when the doors opened.

"Good evening, Taylor," I greet him.

"Mr. Grey, Miss Steele," he replies.

"I was Mrs. Taylor yesterday," Ana says, and flashes a grin at Taylor, who flushes.

Immediately, reactive irritation spikes in my veins at her coy, playful attitude toward Taylor.

"That has a nice ring to it, Miss Steele," he says. _What the hell?!_

"I thought so, too," she responds. _The fuck?!_

I tighten my grip on her hand, aware that I must be scowling.

"If you two have quite finished, I'd like a debriefing." I turn my glare on Taylor, who I hope is reminded of just where his place is in this house. Gone are my friendly thoughts from yesterday-can it only have been yesterday?-; Taylor _can _be replaced if he doesn't watch where he steps.

"I'll be with you shortly. I just want a word with Miss Steele," I tell Taylor, leading her through the foyer and into my bedroom, closing the door behind us.

"Don't flirt with the staff, Anastasia."

Her mouth opens, she looks surprised by my anger, and it closes again. Finally, she says, "I wasn't flirting. I was being friendly-there is a difference."

"Don't be friendly with the staff or flirt with them," I snap, "I don't like it."

"I'm sorry," she says, and has the grace to look shamefaced. Her gaze is downcast now, directed at her knotted fingers.

I can't stand not seeing her face, her eyes, and so I reach for her chin, tilting her face up until I can. I realize that maybe I've been too harsh, too domineering about this. She really doesn't know the effect she has on men. The poor girl can be rather clueless.

"You know how jealous I am," I whisper to her.

"You have no reason to be jealous, Christian," she argues softly, "You own me body and soul."

I blink, surprised by her proclamation. It is difficult to process, altogether impossible to believe, that she wants, needs, desires me, as much as I want, need and desire her.

I press my lips against hers briefly.

"I won't be long," I tell her, "Make yourself at home." I'd much rather make myself at home inside of her, but duty calls, and I turn, leaving her in my bedroom.

I approach Taylor, who still stands at attention in the foyer.

"In my office," I say, and gesture toward the room.

Once inside, I pace over to the windows. "I won't have you conversing with Miss Steele that way, Taylor," I tell him calmly, "It is not your place, and I can have you replaced."

"I apologize, Mr. Grey," he says simply.

I nod. "So, debriefing."

"Like I said on the phone this afternoon, the fire escape breech has been taken care of. I think that must be where she was getting in, with a key she stole from somewhere. As a precaution, we've changed all the locks, we've swept every single room. There has been no sign of her all weekend, Mr. Grey."

"None at all?"

"No, sir."

I sigh in frustration. This has been going on far too long. She needs to be found, and given the help she needs, before she does something rash. Again.

We finish up, and I head back toward the bedroom. When I first step inside, I don't see Ana anywhere, but then I see the light filtering out from the walk in closet, and I head toward it. She's standing in the midst, staring at all her clothes, now crowded in with mine. It looks... Nice.

"Oh, they managed the move," I say, having completely forgotten I asked that to be done until now.

"What's wrong?" she asks me.

Rather than trying to hide things from her again-because she always gets it out of me anyway-I say, "Taylor thinks Leila was getting in through the emergency stairwell. She must have had a key. All the locks have been changed now. Taylor's team has done a sweep of every room in the apartment. She's not here." I'm surprised by how much this aggravates me. At least if they'd found her here, while Ana was safely gone, she'd be in a hospital by now. As it is, she's still at large. "I wish I knew where she was," I admit, "She's evading all our attempts to find her when she needs help." I frown, troubled.

Ana comes to me and wraps her arms around me. Automatically, mine come up to enfold her, and I kiss the top of her head, grateful for her closeness.

"What will you do when you find her?" she questions.

"Dr. Flynn has a place."

"What about her husband?"

"He's washed his hands of her," I say, aware I sound contrite and angry. I have a right to be. That man is an asshole. "Her family is in Connecticut. I think she's very much on her own out there." Not only where she comes from, but out there now, this very night, on the streets, lost, roaming aimlessly-well, no. She has one purpose. But she's ill. She needs treatment and therapy and medication. She needs shelter and good, hearty meals and company-even if it is only therapists and fellow patients.

"That's sad," Ana says.

The thought of Ana being sad for a woman who could very much want her dead makes me uncomfortable, so I decide to change the subject.

"Are you okay with all your stuff being here? I want you to share my room." I know this will distract her.

"Yes," she replies.

"I want you sleeping with me. I don't have nightmares when you're with me." _And I know where you are at all times._

"You have nightmares?" she asks me.

"Yes."

It might just be me, but I think I feel her tighten her hold on me, incrementally.

After a moment she says, "I was just getting my clothes ready for work tomorrow."

"Work!" I can't restrain my sudden, horrified outburst. I let her go, so I can look at her face, so I can tell whether she's joking or not.

Clearly she's not, because she says, "Yes, work." She looks bemused, thrown by my reaction.

How can she be so stupid?

"But Leila-she's out there." I pause, warring with myself. On one hand, Ana has her own life, and her own independence, and her own job. She should go to work if she wants to. But on the other, there is a mentally unstable woman, armed with a gun, possibly after her. Who approached her at that very workplace, for the first time. My decision is made. It will be impossible to keep her properly protected. "I don't want you to go to work."

The old Christian would have said 'You are not going to work'. But this new, metamorphic Christian is different. He realizes that the woman of his affection has a say. He realizes he cannot control her. He is not her Dominant. She is not his submissive. They are a unit, a couple, with each their own personality, goals and lives.

The thought makes me crazy.

"That's ridiculous, Christian. I have to go to work," she protests.

"No, you don't." I have more money than the both of us needs. There is no necessity for her to be working. I can provide completely for her.

"I have a new job," she insists, "which I enjoy. Of course I have to go to work."

"No, you don't," I repeat.

"Do you think I am going to stay here twiddling my thumbs while you're off being Master of the Universe?" she demands.

"Frankly... Yes," I admit.

Exasperation crosses her expression. "Christian, I need to go to work."

"No, you don't," I insist.

"Yes. I. Do." She slows her words down, as if she were talking to someone less than intelligent. It offends me.

I scowl at her. "It's not safe."

"Christian... I need to work for a living, and I'll be fine," she says.

"No, you don't need to work for a living-and how do you know you'll be fine?" I'm aware that the volume of my voice has risen several notches, but she's being ridiculous.

"For heaven's sake, Christian, Leila was standing at the end of your bed, and she didn't harm me, and yes, I do need to work. I don't want to be beholden to you. I have my student loans to pay."

She makes a point there, about Leila, but I still don't like this. I'm not convinced she doesn't want to hurt her. And who the fuck cares about her student loans?

My mouth smooths itself into a firm, unyielding line as she plants her hands on her hips.

"I don't want you going to work."

"It's not up to you, Christian," she argues, "This is not your decision to make."

Fuck, I know it! I run my hand through my hair, staring at her, grappling for words, someway to convince her to stay, but even as I search for a conclusion, I know she's right. If she wants to go to work, she's going to go to work. So I search for a compromise.

"Sawyer will come with you," I decide.

"Christian, that's not necessary," she protests, "You're being irrational."

"Irrational?" I snap. I am not the fucking irrational one here; she is! "Either he comes with you, or I will be really irrational and keep you here."

"How, exactly?" she challenges.

"Oh, I'd find a way, Anastasia. Don't push me."

"Okay!" she relents, holding her hands up, palms forward. "Okay-Sawyer can come with me if it makes you feel better." She rolls her eyes, and before I can catch myself, I feel my own narrow into slits, and I take a step toward her.

When she takes a step back, I realize myself, and pull up immediately.

I take a deep breath, pushing my hands through my hair.

_Cool it, Grey._

"Shall I give you a tour?" It's the first thing that pops into my mind, in order to distract myself from the dark, swirling thoughts that tempt me-punishment and violence..

"Okay," she says slowly, carefully, confused by my sudden change in direction, I think.

I offer my hand to her, and causing me great relief, she takes it. I squeeze it gently.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," I tell her.

"You didn't. I was just getting ready to run," she jokes.

"Run?" I repeat, apprehension jolting through me like a lightening bolt.

"I'm joking!" she cries.

Relieved-but pissed she'd make a joke like that-I lead her from the closet and back through the bedroom.

I show her the rooms upstairs-playroom, which we skip over quickly, the three spare bedrooms, and Taylor and Gail's wing, which includes a kitchen, living area and bedroom each. Downstairs, the TV room across from my study catches her interest, and we stop there.

"So, you do have an Xbox?" she says, smirking, upon seeing the various gaming consoles I hardly ever play with.

"Yes, but I'm crap at it," I admit. "Elliot always beats me. That was funny, when you thought I meant this room was my playroom." I grin at her, recalling the memory. How innocent, how naive, she was.

"I'm glad you find me amusing, Mr. Grey," she snaps.

"That you are, Miss Steele-when you're not being exasperating, of course."

"I'm usually exasperating when you're being unreasonable," she counters.

"Me? Unreasonable?"

"Yes, Mr. Grey. Unreasonable could be your middle name."

"I don't have a middle name," I tell her.

"Unreasonable would suit, then," she decides.

"I think that's a matter of opinion, Miss Steele," I argue playfully.

"I would be interested in Dr. Flynn's professional opinion," she muses.

I smirk. Oh, I can only imagine what he'd say. In fact, I think he's called me unreasonable a few times.

"I thought Trevelyan was your middle name," Ana says.

"No. Surname. Trevelyan-Grey."

"But you don't use it." She's confused.

"It's too long." Doesn't matter. "Come." I take her out of the "play" room, through the great room to the main corridor past the utility room, through the wine cellar, and into Taylor's office.

He stands at attention when we walk in.

"Hi, Taylor. I'm just giving Anastasia a tour." Discreetly, I scan the wall of security monitors, fixed on the balcony, stairwell, service elevator and foyer. There is no sign of anyone.

He nods at me, and at Ana when she smiles at him.

I take her hand again and guide her to the library.

"And of course, you've been in here," I conclude, pushing open the door.

Her eyes fall on the billiard table in the center of the room.

"Shall we play?" she suggests.

I smile, surprised and pleased. "Okay," I agree. "Have you played before?"

"A few times," she says mysteriously, and something about her tone makes me suspicious. I narrow my eyes at her, cocking my head to one side.

"You're a hopeless liar, Anastasia," I call her out, "Either you've never played before or-"

She licks her lips, wetting them, and the site is... Seductive. "Frightened of a little competition?" she challenges.

"Frightened of a little girl like you?" I banter.

"A wager, Mr. Grey," she suggests.

"You're that confident, Miss Steele? What would you like to wager?"

"If I win, you'll take me back into the playroom," she says.

I stare at her blankly, her words not quite sinking in. Did she really just say that?

"And if I win?"

"Then it's your choice."

I mull over my answer a moment. "Okay, deal," I say, smirking at her, deciding on my own side of the wager, deciding I'll leave it as a surprise. I'm fairly confident in my ability to win. "Do you want to play pool, English snooker, or carom billiards?"

"Pool, please. I don't know the others."

Her words boost my ego.

Quickly, I rack the pool balls, and hand Anastasia a cue and some chalk.

"Would you like to break?" I ask her coquettishly.

"Okay." She chalks the end of her cue, and as she purses her lips to blow the excess away, she stares up at me through her lashes. I know what she's doing, but I feel my body respond anyway. My dick doesn't play games, apparently.

I watch her line up the white ball, bending slightly, admiring the lines and curves of her body as she does so. I'm surprised, distracted by her body, by the clack of the balls striking together, spinning wildly in every direction. I watch in stunned disbelief as a striped ball lands in the top right pocket.

"I choose stripes," she calls, feigning purity, grinning at me shyly. 'Played a few times' my ass.

I feel my mouth twist in amusement. "Be my guest."

She pockets the next three balls seemingly without a sweat. I'm almost too distracted by her bending and stretching to care. That ass, the view I get down her top...

On her fourth go, she misses the green-striped ball by half an inch. A flutter of relief goes through me.

"You know, Anastasia, I could stand here and watch you leaning and stretching across the billiard table all day."

On cue, she blushes, and I'm pleased by the sight. I always love seeing that pink flush in her cheeks, but if it's distracting her, then that's just another plus. To up the ante, I peel off my cream sweater and leave it on the back of a chair.

I bend to take my first shot, and successfully pocket the purple solid in the middle left pocket. Blue in the top left, green in the bottom, and maroon in the middle left once more. On my fifth go, I shoot too enthusiastically and sink the white ball. Damn it.

"A very elementary mistake, Mr. Grey," she teases.

I simper at her. "Ah, Miss Steele, I am but a foolish mortal. Your turn, I believe."

"You're not trying to lose, are you?" Her eyes narrow in speculation.

"Oh no," I assure her, stepping back to let her forward. "For what I have in mind as the prize, I want to win, Anastasia." I shrug. "But then, I always want to win."

She glares at me and proceeds to take her turn, and now I know she's bending low and stretching long to tease me, flashing me shots of her cleavage and behind at every available turn. At one point she glances up at me.

"I know what you're doing," I whisper to her, my mouth dry, my blood hot. And fuck me, it's working.

She cocks her head to the side, pretending innocence, and running her fisted hand up and down her cue a few times. I imagine that hand on my cock.

"Oh. I am just deciding where to take my next shot."

She leans across and takes a shot, then comes around to bend down directly in front of me, giving me an eyeful of that delicious behind. Her blue blouse lifts ever so slightly to reveal a teasing sliver of smooth, porcelain skin.

I can't help my gasp, and I think it causes her to miss.

I move to stand behind her, where she's still bent over the table, and brush my hand over the round curve of her behind.

"Are you waving this around to taunt me, Miss Steele?" I smack her on the right cheek firmly.

I head her sharp intake of breath. "Yes."

"Be careful what you wish for, baby."

I leave her and move to the other side of the table, taking my own shot. Red in the left side pocket. I line up the white with the yellow, shoot, and just miss.

I look up in time to see her grin like the chesire cat.

"Red Room, here we come," she sing-songs.

I lift one brow and gesture for her to take her turn.

She knocks down the green stripe easily, and by some work of God-which I was not depending on-she sinks the orange stripe as well.

"Name your pocket."

"Top left-hand," she says, takes aim, hits, and misses.

Well!

I grin at her wickedly, sinking the two remaining solid balls quickly.

I take the opportunity to straighten and chalk my cue.

"If I win... I am going to spank you, then fuck you over this billiard table," I reveal.

I see her response, the way she shifts, the way her eyes darken.

"Top right," I murmur and bend again. Oh so easily, the black sinks into the pocket. And that's it. I've won.

I straighten, unable to hide my ferocious, giddy grin. I abandon my cue on the table and walk slowly over to her.

"You're not going to be a sore loser, are you?" I quip.

"Depends how hard you spank me," she whispers, and it looks like she's leaning on her pool cue for support. I take it from her and set it aside. I hook my finger into the deep neckline of her shirt and tug her toward me.

"Well, let's count your misdemeanors, Miss Steele." I count on my fingers. "One, making me jealous of my own staff. Two, arguing with me about work. And three, waving your delectable derriere at me for the last twenty minutes." I brush my nose against hers. "I want you to take your jeans and this very fetching shirt off. Now." I plant a soft kiss against her even softer, plumper lips, and head over to the door to lock it.

I turn to gaze at her, and she hasn't moved. She stands there, beside the billiard table, like a deer in the headlights. A fine, gorgeous flush has made it's way across her cheeks and over the bridge of her nose, and her lips are slightly parted. The blue of her irises has melted, and I want to sink into them.

"Clothes, Anastasia," I urge her. "You appear to still be wearing them. Take them off-or I will do it for you."

"You do it," she murmurs, her voice low and husky, and oh so needful and sexy. I grin at her.

"Oh, Miss Steele. It's a dirty job, but I think I can rise to the challenge."

"You normally rise to most challenges, Mr. Grey," she responds, cocking an eyebrow. I can't bite back my smirk. Very punny, Miss Steele.

"Why, Miss Steele, whatever do you mean?" I pause at the desk built into the bookshelves, picking up a twelve-inch Perspex ruler on my way. I grip each end, bending it slightly so that it flexes, fixing my eyes on hers.

By the way her thighs flex, just slightly, I know I've gotten the reaction I've been searching for. I slip the ruler into my back pocket and approach her, dropping to my knees before her to undo her shoelaces. I pull her shoes and socks off, and then grip her by the hips, slipping my fingers into her waistband, feeling that smooth, smooth skin hiding below.

I undo the button and zipper, peeking up at her, grinning, as I pull down her jeans. The sheer white lace panties she wears leaves almost nothing to the imagination, and I can't resist running my nose up the front of them, breathing her in. Oh, the delectable elixir of Anastasia Steele...

"I want to be quite rough with you, Ana. You'll have to tell me to stop if it's too much," I warn her in a whisper.

I plant a kiss on that sweet smelling damp spot, eliciting a low moan.

"Safeword?" she mumbles.

"No, no safeword, just tell me to stop, and I'll stop," I promise, "Understand?" I kiss her once more, nuzzling against the fur-brushed mound of pink, supple flesh. She is silent.

I stop, standing.

"Answer me."

"Yes, yes, I understand," she says.

"You've been dropping hints and giving me mixed signals all day, Anastasia. You said you were worried I'd lost my edge. I'm not sure what you meant by that, and I don't know how serious you were, but we are going to find out. I don't want to go back into the playroom yet, so we can try this now, but if you don't like it, you must promise to tell me."

She must see the anxious intensity in my eyes, because hers soften.

"I'll tell you," she vows, "No safeword."

I don't think she knows how important this is to me, the communication. This was the condition I allowed myself to step across the line for. This is hard, unbelievably hard, harder than she knows.

"We're lovers, Anastasia. Lovers don't need safewords." I try to remind her, and myself. I frown, suddenly unsure. "Do they?"

"I guess not," she says, "I promise."

I stare intensely into her face, searching for something that will tell me the absolution of how this will turn out. Will she communicate properly with me? Can I trust her to be open and honest with me?

I can see she wants it, in the flush of her cheeks and the sheen in her eyes. The way she looks at me lets me know she trusts me implicitly, she's not scared, and that's all the encouragement I need.

I reach up to release each button on her shirt. Once completely undone, I leave it there, not pushing it over her shoulders, and reach for the nearby pool cue.

"You play well, Miss Steele. I must say I'm surprised. Why don't you sink the black?"

She does as she's told, setting up the white ball and taking the cue from me. She leans over the table, and I stand right behind her as she does so. As she bends forward I admire the length of her legs, and the view through her sheer panties.

I run my fingers up and down her leg.

"I am going to miss if you keep doing that," she breathes shakily.

"I don't care if you hit or miss, baby," I assure her, "I just wanted to see you like this-partially dressed, stretched out on my billiard table. Do you have any idea how hot you look at this moment?"

I hear her take a deep breath as I stroke her backside, trying to compose herself enough to take the shot.

"Top left," her quiet voice sounds, and she hits the white ball. As it connects, I smack her hard on the ass.

She yelps loudly, and beyond her shoulder, the white hits the black, and the black hits the green cushion of the table.

I run my hand over her backside again, rubbing away the pain, caressing.

"Oh, I think you need to try that again. You should concentrate, Anastasia."

I can hear her breathing, quickened now, as I set the black ball up again and then roll the white ball down to her. She catches it and lines it up once more, playing along.

Oh, she looks absolutely irresistible, standing there in her undone blouse and white lacy bra and panties.

"Uh-uh," I admonish as she starts to bend. "Just wait."

I move behind her once more, stroking her left thigh, so silky against my hand, and then her backside once more.

"Take aim," I urge in whisper.

A moan escapes her, and she lines it up. White hits black and I strike again. She misses once more.

"Oh no!"

"Once more, baby. And if you miss this time, I'm really going to let you have it."

I walk down the length of the billiard table once more, setting up the ball once again, and then stride back to her, taking my time. The anticipation is killing me. I'm aching in my pants, but this is all part of the game.

I position myself behind her, stroking her ass once more, at home in my hands.

"You can do it," I encourage her. I'm lying, of course. I'll make sure that she doesn't.

She pushes back against me, and I smack her lightly in response.

"Eager, Miss Steele? Well, let's get rid of these." I slip her panties over her hips and pull them off. I plant a soft kiss on each cheek, admiring the glossy pink.

"Take the shot, baby."

The shoots, and I would laugh if I weren't so high strung, when the white misses the black completely.

I lean over her, flattening her into the table, pressing my erection into her backside.

_Feel me, baby._

I take the cue from her hand, and roll it to the side of the table.

"You missed. Put your hands flat on the table."

Immediately, she concedes.

"Good. I'm going to spank you now and next time, maybe you won't." I shift just slightly, keeping my hard cock pressed against her left hip, and admire her, flat against the table, cheek pressed to the baize, hands spread flat.

She groans softly.

I caress the smooth, exposed skin of her backside, reaching up with the other hand to hold her down.

"Open your legs."

She hesitates a moment too long, and I wield the ruler, smacking her hard across the buttocks. The sound is louder, sharper than the sting it leaves, but she gasps anyway. I hit her again.

"Legs," I urge.

This time she spreads them, breath hot, heavy, expectant.

_Oh, yes, baby, open yourself to me... Let me see you._

Even now, I can see the glistening wetness on her thighs. I strike once more. And another time. And a few more.

Each time, each sharp smack, makes my cock twitch, my blood boil hotter.

This is carnal and rough and hot, and I am so in my element...

I am so turned on, so ready, all feeling, lost in this.

I bring the ruler down again, and she moans loudly. In response I groan and hit her again, and again, and again... Harder, and harder, and-

"Stop," she says, her voice cutting clear and bright through my psyche, bringing immediate awareness.

I drop the ruler and let her go.

"Enough?" I breathe.

"Yes," she says.

"I want to fuck you now," I tell her. I want to so badly, but if she doesn't want to... Oh fucking god, I need her. I need to be inside her, need to feel her all around me...

"Yes," she murmurs needfully, and I am relieved.

I undo my fly, and she stays where she is, panting against the table. From my pocket I retrieve a condom, and set it beside her hip.

But first, I ease two fingers inside of her, moving in a circular motion. Oh yes. She's ready.

I rip the foil packet open and roll on the condom. I position myself between her legs, pushing them wider apart.

Then, I fill her, feeling her give way around me, accommodating my shape, welcoming me in. My ears take on a muted, hollow ring as I enter her, filled to the brim with sensation, with the scent of her, and the feel of her-not only her wet, tight, damp flesh, but her skin, smooth and soft.

I can't help but release my groan of pure bliss-I barely hear it.

I hang on to her hips, pulling out, and then pushing all the way back in, quickly, sharply. She cries out at the sudden invasion and I stop for a minute.

"Again?"

"Yes... I'm fine. Lose yourself... Take me with you," she pleads, breathless.

I moan, her words erotic, blissful, orgasmic, and I do just that. I lose myself in her, taking her with me, climbing that mountain so familiar, but never growing old. It's new every time with her. Every time is better than the last, more intense, with more feeling.

I feel her begin to quiver around me and quicken my movements, egging her on, brushing against that spongy spot of hers again and again and again, and it does her in. She explodes around me, and her orgasm triggers my own.

I fall into an abyss so deep and dark, but so full of glimmering blue light, soft, I can't explain the feeling. I am blind, and yet full of sight, completely numb, but able to feel every little thing, all at the same time.


	50. Chapter 50

**Monday, June 13 2011**

**.**

The alarm clock wakes me the next morning-I've stayed uptoo late, catching up on what I missed yesterday. I'd completely forgotten that Ros and I are due to fly over in Charlie Tango for our land plot meeting this coming Friday.

I stayed up for an hour after that, trying to come up with some kind of alternate alternative to leaving Anastasia unattended. I came up empty-handed. We'd be gone only most of one day, but still. I'll admit, I'm paranoid about leaving her alone. I'm paranoid about her going to work today-fuck! Ana's going to work today!

My eyes jerk open, and when I find her leaning up on her elbow, staring down at me, I blink, a tad disoriented. I'm typically awake before the alarm.

The light that filters through my curtains is muted and faded, and I hear the rain coming down outside.

"Good morning," Ana greets me now, reaching up to touch my face-her skin feels soft and smooth against the stubble on my cheek-and she leans down to press her lips to mine.

"Good morning, baby. I usually wake up before the alarm goes off."

"It's set so early," she observes.

"That it is, Miss Steele," I say, grinning at her obvious displeasure at that fact. "I have to get up." I kiss her once more, and then push myself up and out of bed, no matter how much I'd like to stay there and lay with Ana all morning, all day, long.

However, it's another Monday. Nose to the grindstone. I've had a relaxed weekend of slacking off, and now there are things that need to be caught up on. Business ventures, meetings, travel details, etc, etc.

I head into the en suite, piss, shower, brush my teeth, shave. I dress in the walk-in closet, noting as I pass that Anastasia has fallen back asleep. I stop in the doorway of the closet for a singular moment, to admire her sleeping face, half-sitting, propped up on my pillows. I have a hard time believing she doesn't know just how beautiful she is. It's unfathomable to me that she's waited so long, that she's waited for me, of all people.

It's easy to see she didn't go undetected-that smooth, porcelain skin, those perfectly shaped, plush pink lips, that body... No, I know for a fact that she has had her fair share of admirers; I'm just baffled by the fact that she's chosen me.

I love this woman, I would lay down my life for her. That's why it's so hard for me to let her go to work today, to potentially be put in harm's way.

But if I get to go to work, maybe she deserves that same respect.

I dress in a white shirt, a simple black suit, and then head over to the bed. I watch her for another moment, and then lean over, kissing her forehead.

"Come on, sleepyhead, get up."

Her eyes blink open, take in my ready-for-the-day appearance, and then cloud over, darken, just slightly.

"What?"

"I wish you'd come back to bed," she murmurs.

I feel my lips spring apart, surprised by her blatant forwardness, and then I smile.

"You are insatiable, Miss Steele. As much as that idea appeals, I have an eight thirty meeting, so I have to go shortly."

Awareness brightens her eyes when she realizes how much time has passed, and suddenly, much to my amusement, she springs out of bed, awake and at complete attention.

.

"Mr. Grey, would you like me to pack you a lunch today?"

"No, Gail, thank you. I have a lunch meeting. Anastasia would like to take along something though, I think."

"Certainly. I'll ask her what she'd like."

I've eaten my breakfast and am finishing my coffee when Anastasia walks into the great room. She is showered and fresh. Minimal makeup, hair pulled back demurely from her face. She's dressed in gray, a silk blouse and a pencil skirt, with tall black pumps. The combination makes her legs look amazing, and suddenly I'm wishing my 8:30 meeting was a 9:30 meeting.

In the kitchen, Gail is making pancakes and bacon for Anastasia, under my request.

"You look lovely," I compliment her as she crosses the room to us. I slip an arm around her waist and kiss her underneath her exposed ear. Of course this elicits a blush as she slips onto the bar stool next to me.

"Good morning, Miss Steele," Gail greets her as she slides her breakfast in front of her.

"Oh, thank you," Ana says, looking pleased, which pleases me. "Good morning."

"Mr. Grey says you'd like to take lunch with you to work. What would you like to eat?"

Ana swivels her head to look at me, shooting me an accusing glare, which makes it very hard not to smirk at her, which I know she wouldn't like.

"A sandwich... Salad," she tells Gail, "I really don't mind."

"I'll rustle up a packed lunch for you, ma'am."

"Please, Mrs. Jones, call me Ana," she begs her.

"Ana," Gail corrects herself, and turns toward the tea kettle.

Again, Ana glances at me, and something about her expression makes me believe she's challenging me. It's lost on me; I don't know what she would be challenging me about.

"I have to go, baby. Taylor will come back and drop you at work with Sawyer."

"Only to the door," she reminds me, stubborn thing.

"Yes. Only to the door." I roll my eyes, exasperated by the whole thing. "Be careful, though."

She glances over my shoulder, her gaze settling on Taylor, who must be standing by the door. I stand, bowing my head to kiss her goodbye, holding her by the chin.

"Laters, baby."

"Have a good day at the office, dear," she calls after me.

.

The eight-thirty meeting is relatively short and to the point, which is great, because I really do have a busy day ahead of me, and wasting time over useless factoids and chatter isn't what I need.

I head back into my office and maneuver over to my email program. I'm delighted to see there is an email waiting for me from Anastasia, a reply to the one I sent just before I went into my meeting this morning-regarding our weekend, the fact I'd like her never to leave, that the news of SIP is embargoed for four weeks, and to delete my email as soon as she receives it.

.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Bossy

**Date: **June 13 2011 09:03

**To: **Christian Grey

.

Dear Mr. Grey

Are you asking me to move in with you? And of course, I remembered that the evidence of your epic stalking capabilities is embargoed for another four weeks. Do I make a check out to Coping Together and send to your dad? Please don't delete this e-mail. Please respond to it.

ILY xxx

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP

.

I linger too long on the signature, and realize that I'm grinning like a dummy, until my inbox _pings_, letting me know I've received yet another email regarding business, and that I do have work to do.

"_Are you asking me to move in with you?"_ The question is distracting, and pressing. It's not the first time I've thought about it, and as of late, it's seemed more important, crucial, to me than ever.

.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Me, Bossy?

**Date: **June 13 2011 09:07

**To: **Anastasia Steele

.

Yes. Please.

Christian Grey,

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

.

I click over to my other emails, including one from Mr. Kavanagh, and a few regarding the solar powered cell phone.

Andrea calls about lunch orders for the noontime meeting, and arrangements for the flight on Friday.

Ros calls from her office, with news about the land plot in Detroit.

It's a short while later-but long enough to have me anxious-when Ana replies.

.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Flynnisms

**Date: **June 13 2011 09:20

**To: **Christian Grey

.

Christian

What happened to walking before we run?

Can we talk about this tonight, please?

I've been asked to go to a conference in New York on Thursday. It means an overnight stay on Wednesday.

Just thought you should know.

A x

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP

.

Oh shit. Oh hell no. My generally productive, good mood has evaporated, and in its place is familiar suspicious, irate Christian Grey.

.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **WHAT?

**Date: **June 13 2011 09:21

**To: **Anastasia Steele

.

Yes. Let's talk this evening.

Are you going on your own?

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

.

I know she's avoiding me when five minutes pass and she still hasn't responded. It's a simple yes or no question. It should be rather easy to answer.

To distract myself, I focus on some spreadsheets and summaries.

This is all too much for a Monday morning. It's not even nine-goddamn-thirty yet.

My inbox alerts me of an incoming email and I whip around in my chair to see who it's from. It's her.

.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **No Bold Shouty Capitals on a Monday Morning!

**Date: **June 13 2011 09:30

**To: **Christian Grey

Can we talk about this tonight?

A x

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP

.

.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **You Haven't Seen Shouty Yet.

**Date: **June 13 2011 09:35

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Tell me.

If it's with the sleazeball you work with, then the answer is no, over my dead body.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

.

Ten minutes later, I get my reply.

.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **No YOU haven't seen shouty yet.

**Date: **June 13 2011 09:46

**To: **Christian Grey

Yes. It is with Jack.

I want to go. It's an exciting opportunity for me. And I have never been to New York.

Don't get your knickers in a twist.

Anastasia Steele  
Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP

.

.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **No You haven't seen shouty yet.

**Date: **June 13 2011 09:50

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Anastasia

It's not my fucking knickers I am worried about.

The answer is NO.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

.

I send the email off and then sigh, running both of my hands through my hair. I know this is not the fucking end of it. I know she'll have a rebuttal that sounds very logical and makes many points. But there's a few things I'm just not willing to negotiate on at this point of time, and going to New Fucking York with Jack Fucking Asshole Hyde is one of them.

.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Fifty Shades

**Date: **June 13 2011 09:55

**To: **Christian Grey

Christian

You need to get a grip.

I am NOT going to sleep with Jack-not for all the tea in China.

I LOVE you. That's what happens when people love each other.

They TRUST each other.

I don't think you are going to SLEEP WITH, SPANK, FUCK, or, WHIP anyone else. I have FAITH and TRUST in you.

Please extend the same COURTESY to me.

Ana

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP

.

Holy fuck.

The shock only registers for a nanosecond, and then rage whips through my body like wildfire. I want to hit something, badly. I want to hit her. I want to freeze SIP's accounts-which I will do in a minute-do as much damage control on the email front as I can, and then I want to drive over to SIP, spank the fucking hell out of her, fuck her to show her who's in fucking charge here. And then later tonight, she'd get a real good caning-A knock interrupts my steady, streaming, spewing thoughts.

"Mr. Grey?" Andrea pokes her head around the door.

"What?" I snap at her, aware it sounds like I have poison in my voice.

She hesitates for just a moment. "Your mother is on line two-"

"I'll call her back."

"Yes, Sir." She shuts the door and leaves.

Hasn't she fucking realized I've been avoiding my mother's calls all morning? I have work to do, and now, I have even more fucking work to do, because Anastasia Steele doesn't know how to control herself!

I dial Anastasia's phone number.

She sounds exhausted and wary when she answers, "Jack Hyde's office, Ana Steele speaking."

"Will you please delete the last e-mail you sent me and try to be a little more circumspect in the language you use in your work e-mail? I told you, the system is monitored. I will endeavor to do some damage limitation from here."

I slam the phone down, and then immediately yank it up again to call Welch. He answers on the first ring. Reliable man. I'd be pleased if I weren't so fucking pissed out of my mind right now.

"Limit SIP's accounts to approval by senior management."

"For everything, Sir?"

_Everything, _I want to snarl. But I have some composure. As lovely as controlling every fucking thing Anastasia does at SIP sounds, it's not logical, and it's not rational.

"No. Just all travel and hotel expenses for staff. And put a moratorium on all their spending."

"Yes, Mr. Grey. On it."

I pace away from my desk once I've ended the call, raking my hands through my hair once more. This day is steadily going to hell in a hand basket.

My Blackberry begins to buzz on my desk and I stalk back over to it, snatching it up. Caller ID tells me it's Ana.

"What?" I hiss.

"I am going to New York whether you like it or not," she snaps.

"Don't count on it," I snarl right back, but before I'm halfway through with the words, she's hung up on me.

Oh my fucking god. The woman hung up on me.

If anger were a palpable, physical reaction, I'd be on fire. My office would be on fire. Hell, all of Grey Enterprises would be up in fucking flames.

.

Less than an hour later, I receive another email from Ana.

.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **What have you done?

**Date: **June 13 2011 10:43

**To: **Christian Grey

Please tell me you won't interfere with my work.

I really want to go to this conference.

I shouldn't have to ask you.

I have deleted the offending e-mail.

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP

.

I've had a chance to cool off a tad now, though the anger is going to keep my blood simmering all day long, now.

I am aware of the promises I made to her. I know what I said and what I guaranteed her. What I didn't tell her, what I didn't say was in the 'fine print' of sorts, is that all those promises stand, aside from the fact when she is threatened.

And whether it's Leila holding her at gunpoint, or risking sexual harassment by Jack Hyde, she's being threatened. And so, no, I don't feel too guilty for going back on my word.

.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **What have you done?

**Date: **June 13 2011 10:46

**To: **Anastasia Steele

I am just protecting what is mine.

The e-mail that you so rashly sent is wiped from the SIP server now, as are my e-mails to you.

Incidentally, I trust you implicitly. It's him I don't trust.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

.

.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **Grown Up

**Date: **June 13 2011 10:48

**To: **Christian Grey

Christian

I don't need protecting from my own boss.

He may make a pass at me, but I would say no.

You cannot interfere. It's wrong and controlling on so many levels.

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP

.

Rage rips through me once more.

.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **The Answer is NO

**Date: **June 13 2011 10:50

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Ana

I have seen how "effective" you are at fighting off unwanted attention. I remember that's how I had the pleasure of spending my first night with you. At least the photographer has feelings for you. The sleazeball, on the other hand, does not. He is a serial philanderer, and he will try to seduce you. Ask him what happened to his previous PA and the one before that.

I don't want to fight about this.

If you want to go to New York, I'll take you. We can go this weekend. I have an apartment there.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

.

Suddenly, I feel very small, and desperate. Two things I try very hard to avoid feeling at all times.

I check the clock. It's nearly eleven and there is a lot I have to get done before my lunch meeting at noon.

I focus on the task at hand, interrupted almost half an hour later by yet another email from Ana. But it's not what I'm expecting, and the irritation rises again. For the first time today, however, it is not directed at Anastasia.

.

**From: **Anastasia Steele

**Subject: **FW Lunch date or Irritating Baggage

**Date: **June 13 2011 11:15

**To: **Christian Grey

Christian

While you have been busy interfering in my career and saving your ass from my careless missives, I received the following e-mail from Mrs. Lincoln. I really don't want to meet with her-even if I did, I am not allowed to leave this building. How she got hold of my e-mail address, I don't know. What would you suggest I do? Her e-mail is below:

_Dear Anastasia, I would really like to have lunch with you. I think we got off on the wrong foot, and I'd like to make that right. Are you free sometime this week? Elena Lincoln._

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Editor, SIP

.

.

**From: **Christian Grey

**Subject: **Irritating Baggage

**Date: **June 13 2011 11:23

**To: **Anastasia Steele

Don't be mad at me. I have your best interests at heart.

If anything happened to you, I would never forgive myself.

I'll deal with Mrs. Lincoln.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

.

.

Lunch is served in the boardroom. Things are moving right along with the solar-powered cell phone, and I am pleased with its quicker than expected progress.

The phone rings.

"Grey."

"Mr. Grey..." It's Taylor, and he sounds hesistant.

Panic rifles through me.

"Is it Ana?"

"Yes, Sir. Er, she left the office to pick up lunch." _Probably for that scum bag of a boss. _"She's returned safely. Sawyer followed her all the way there and back, but I know you wanted to be informed if she were to leave."

"Yes, thank you, Taylor."

I hang up and dial Ana's number now. Again.

"Jack Hyde's office," she begins.

"You assured me you wouldn't go out," I snap before she can finish her professional greeting. My voice sounds glacial.

She hesitates for just a moment. "Jack sent me out for some lunch. I couldn't say no. Are you having me watched?"

I ignore her accusation. "This is why I didn't want you going back to work."

"Christian, please." She sounds exasperated. "You're being... So suffocating."

"Suffocating?" I repeat, able to summon only a whisper in my shocked, horrified state. I never meant to be suffocating...

"Yes," she says, "You have to stop this. I'll talk to you this evening. Unfortunately I have to work late because I can't go to New York."

Her having to stay late barely registers. "Anastasia, I don't want to suffocate you..." My voice sounds quiet and small.

"Well, you are. I have work to do. I'll talk to you later."

It takes me a moment to realize she's hung up, and I pull the phone away from my ear, numb. Suffocating. I don't want to smother her. I never wanted that. I want to protect her, but if my doing that is making her feel trapped... If she feels trapped, does this mean she's finally going to run?

"_I have work to do. I'll talk to you later."_

She sounded so resigned, so... Done on the phone.

Have I done it now? Has she reached her limit of me? Have I done too much, gone overboard? Is this it? Is this where she finally leaves me for sure?

I can't face the thought of that, but I also realize that I can't just stop protecting her, not right now, not when it's so crucial.

The phone rings, and I pick it up, desperate for some distraction.


	51. Chapter 51

_Hi lovelies. Just thought I__'d let you all know I made a very minor mistake regarding one of Christian's meetings on the last chapter. It has been corrected :)_

_._

**Monday June 13 2011 - evening**

**.**

It's still raining when Taylor picks me up from the office. In hindsight, I'm glad Ana had to stay late. It helped enable me to get some more work done that would have had me busier than I would have liked tomorrow. I still have more to do this evening, but less of it is always nice.

It's also kept me distracted, up until now. We drive through the rain, streaking down the windows like tiny rivers, and I am reminded of our phone conversation this afternoon, and how angry with me she must be. All I want is to keep her safe, and at my side. I love her, and I want to spend the rest of my life with her, but for that happen, something has to change.

Dammit, something always has to change; and it's always me. Of course it's always me. I'm the one who's always doing everything wrong.

We pull up in front of SIP with a couple minutes to spare, and now the anxiety really sets in. I feel the muscles in my shoulders tense and rise up toward my ears when Ana appears in the doorway.

Taylor jumps out and opens the door for her. She slips in, onto the seat next to me, and I appraise her closely. She doesn't look angry, her eyes are the clearest blue, but that doesn't mean she _isn't._

"Hi," she greets me, her voice a low, gentle murmur.

"Hi." I sound wary, and for the first time, I realize how tightly my jaw is set. Unable to resist touching her, I reach for her hand, squeezing it firmly. "Are you still mad?"

"I don't know," she says.

I lift her knuckles to my mouth, brushing them against my lips.

"It's been a shitty day."

"Yes, it has," she agrees.

"It's better now that you're here," I tell her, beginning to relax. Being near her, touching her, smelling her calming, soothing, sexy scent, allows some of the pressure to leave. Despite our differences throughout the course of the day, I'm happy to be near her, happy to know she's not quite as mad as I thought she would be. She's letting me touch her, which always, _always _helps.

We sit in silence for the rest of the ride, and I'm surprised by how quickly we pull up in front of Escala. We duck quickly inside, in a hurry to be out of the rain, both of us without an umbrella.

I press the call button on the elevator and grasp Ana's hand, scanning the front of the building for any sign that something may be out of place.

"I take it you haven't found Leila yet," she murmurs, observing my wary attitude.

"No. Welch is still looking for her."

The elevator dings and the doors gape open. We step inside, and as the doors slip closed, and we are left alone in that small shaft, I feel it... That familiar buildup of electric sensation, and after the day I've had, it's oh-so-welcome. I can't ignore it, and I gaze down at her, lips parted to accommodate my sudden, shallow breathing.

"Do you feel it?"

"Yes," she murmurs.

"Oh, Ana," I groan, giving myself over to the heated, sizzling feelings, desperate to have her, here, now. In the elevator. It's a passionate, desperate need that I don't think I'll ever get used to.

I wrap my arms around her, one hand flying to the base of her neck to tip her head back, so my mouth can find hers. Our lips meld seamlessly, and the silken feel of her lips on mine after this very shitty day is the anesthetic I need.

I'm relieved she's not angry.

I walk her backwards until she's pressed against the wall of the elevator, her fingers threaded through my hair in the most delicious way, tugging just so. It feels amazing.

"I hate arguing with you," I say against her lips. She is the answer right now, the only answer. The power of her presence settles over me, sedating me and firing me up all in the same, jumbled together moment. I'm drunk on it.

We kiss passionately, tongues battling for dominance, and I cannot resist it any longer. I reach for her skirt, pulling it up to expose the softness of her thighs. Blindly I stroke the silky skin, and find, much to my surprise, stockings.

"Sweet Jesus, you're wearing stockings." I'd be embarrassed by the desperate awe my voice betrays, but if we're honest, she knows-at least I hope she does-how much I am in awe of her. She is like a goddess to me, a woman worthy to be worshiped.

"I want to see this."

I pull back just slightly, pulling her skirt higher to expose what I want to see. I reach over and press the 'Stop' button. We coast to an even halt between the twenty-second and twenty-third floors, but I barely notice, because I am enthralled by the sight of her, leaning against the elevator wall, panting, flushed, hair beginning to fall from its pony-tail entrapment. Oh, those legs, those stockings...

She stares across the short way at me, eyes navy blue and lust-filled.

"Take your hair down," my voice says, husky and low.  
Her hands lift, freeing the dark, glossy curtains of hair from the hair tie, and it falls around her shoulders, to her breasts. I catch a whiff of freesia as it cascades.

"Undo the top two buttons of your shirt," I breathe.

She does so without asking or hesitating, and reveals to me a teasing, scintillating view of her perfect cleavage.

I swallow, hard. God, I am one lucky son-of-a-bitch.

"Do you have any idea how alluring you look right now?" Irresistible. I can barely keep my hands off of her.

Very slowly, so I know it's on purpose, her teeth close on her bottom lip, and she shakes her head.

Oh, she drives me crazy. I am a wild man, barely contained. I close my eyes to compose myself, and once I feel that I'm mostly in control again, I step toward her, flattening my palms against the elevator wall on either side of her. She tilts her face toward me, and I bend to brush my nose up the length of hers, so that it's the only contact between us.

"I think you do, Miss Steele. I think you like to drive me wild."

"Do I drive you wild?"

"In all things, Anastasia. You are a siren, a goddess." I scoop her leg up, hooking it over my hip, and I know she can feel my hardness against her-the surprise in her eyes betrays her. I trail a series of kisses down the column of her perfect throat, inhaling her heady scent with each breath.

She sighs a moan and loops her arms around my neck.

"I'm going to take you now," I tell her in a whisper, unable to hold back any longer. The stress of the day needs release, and the confines of this elevator seems like the perfect place to do that.

In response, she presses herself against me, harder, eager. I can't bite back my groan of desire as I lose myself in the moment, consumed by the proximity of her in this tiny space, her scent enveloping me like an embrace. Something about it sets my head spinning, and all I can think about in this moment is how much I want her.

I boost her higher, so that we'll be in line, and unzip my fly, releasing myself.

"Hold tight, baby." I pull a condom from my pocket-always be prepared-and hold it up in front of her lush, swollen lips. She bites down on the packet and I pull, ripping it open.

"Good girl," I praise her, and back up slightly so I can slide the latex sheath over my dick. "God, I can't wait for the next six days," I groan. I'm eager to feel all of her again, every inch of that wet, tight flesh against mine. "I do hope you're not overly fond of these panties." And I tear through the delicate, lacy fabric. Partly because I'm so goddamn impatient to be inside of her, partially because I want to see her reaction.

She's breathing heavily, her exposed chest heaving, her blue eyes limpid pools of desire. Her lips are slightly parted to accommodate her quickened breath, as are mine I can imagine. Her hair falls around her like a curtain, sexy and thick and mysterious. I stare straight into her eyes as I fill her, watching her feel me enter her. I feel her body give way around me, clamping tight and the feeling is indescribable.

I pull almost all the way out and the push oh-so-slowly all the way back in, possessing her, owning her, in this very moment.

She groans softly, sacrificing herself wholly to me.

"You are mine, Anastasia," I say softly against the rich, smooth skin of her throat.

"Yes," she vows, "Yours. When will you accept that?"

I groan, something about her words sending my mind into a frenzy. I can't comprehend them, and I don't know if I'll ever really accept that she's given herself to me completely. She hasn't. There's further we could go.

I surrender myself to the building tension, the sensations, the mounting pressure in my perineum and balls, suddenly desperate for release. I pick up the pace, pounding into her for all I'm worth, pinioning her between me and the wall behind her.

Oh, I'm losing myself in her, and I wouldn't have it any other way...

I'm close, so close.

"Oh, baby," I pant, my teeth grazing her jaw almost unconsciously-barely aware of my actions anymore. The bliss is taking over, surely and swiftly.

She comes, her walls pulsing around me, the wetness flooding, and I follow after, spilling every facet of myself into her.

.

Later, I fetch a bottle of wine from the refrigerator, and Ana and I sit at the breakfast bar to eat the delicious smelling coq au vin Gail has prepared for us.

I tell her a bit about my day, how the solar-paneled cell phone project is going well. To be honest, the development of this mobile phone is the most exciting project I've had in awhile. It makes me feel good, hopeful about bringing change to the places in the world that need it. I think it will make a real difference. It's new and innovative, and hasn't been done before.

"How many properties do you have?" Ana asks me when I've finished my spiel. She's about halfway through her meal, though I'm close to finished. Our tryst in the elevator left me famished.

I smirk at her. "I own properties in New York, Aspen and Escala. That's it."

"Oh," she says, obviously surprised.

We finish our meal and Ana takes our plates to the sink, and suddenly, dread sinks a lead weight in my stomach. Now we'll have to talk.

"Leave that," I tell her, regarding the dishes, "Gail will do it."

She turns, her eyes finding mine, finding me watching her.

"Well, now that you are more docile, Miss Steele, shall we talk about today?" I suggest, trying to keep the subject light.

"I think you're the one who's more docile," she corrects me, "I think I'm doing a good job in taming you."

I can't help but be amused by her choice of words. "Taming me?"

She nods, serious, and I realize that her idea of tame may not be quite the same as mine. Suddenly, I see it from her perspective.

I feel myself frown as I realize that "tame" in Anastasia's world doesn't necessarily mean docile and quiet and obedient and bound, as in my former world. Perhaps she's referring to my anger, my hostility towards the world, the way I'm leaving that behind. I reflect back on this weekend for a moment, coming to the realization that yes, I suppose I was very "tame", according to her.

"Yes," I finally say, "Maybe you are, Anastasia."

"You were right about Jack," she admits, her voice low, serious, as she leans toward me across the island.

Panic, rage and fear flame up inside me. "Has he tried anything?" I ask, trying in vain to keep my voice calm. It sounds frigid, the opposite of composed. I swear to fucking God, if he so much as lays a finger on her...

She shakes her head quickly. "No, and he won't, Christian. I told him today that I'm your girlfriend, and he backed right off."

"You're sure? I could fire the fucker."

She exhales a sigh. "You really have to let me fight my own battles," she insists, "You can't constantly second-guess me and try to protect me. It's stifling, Christian. I'll never flourish with your incessant interference. I need some freedom. I wouldn't dream of meddling in your affairs."

I blink at her, coming up blank. I can't understand most of what she's said. "I only want you safe, Anastasia," I say, the only thing I can say, "If anything happened to you, I-" I stop, unable to finish. The thought is too painful.

"I know," she murmurs reassuringly, "and I understand why you feel so driven to protect me. And part of me loves it. I know that if I need you, you'll be there, as I am for you. But if we are to have any hope of a future together, you have to trust me and trust my judgment. Yes, I'll get it wrong sometimes-I'll make mistakes, but I have to learn."

I do trust her, and her judgment! It's the dangers she finds herself in that I don't trust; the people on the other side of the equation that I don't trust. And mistakes! Mistakes, at this moment in time, could cost her her innocence, or her life!

She walks over to me, where I'm sitting on the bar stool, and stands between my legs, wrapping my arms around her and then placing her hands on my upper arms.

"You can't interfere in my job," she says, "It's wrong. I don't need you charging in like a white knight to save the day. I know you want to control everything, and I understand why, but you can't. It's an impossible goal.. You have to learn to let go. And if you can do that-give me that-I'll move in with you." She's stroking my face, her fingers heavenly against my cheek.

I gasp, surprised by her words. "You'd do that?"

"Yes."

"But you don't know me," I hear myself arguing, suddenly overcome, choked, by panic and anxiety. She needs to know me if we're going to build a future together... She won't possible stay after she knows...

"I know you well enough, Christian," she insists obliviously, "Nothing you tell me about yourself will frighten me away." Yeah right. You just wait. "But if you could just ease up on me," she begs.

"I'm trying, Anastasia." Dammit, am I trying. I let her go to work today, didn't I? I didn't leave work and haul her ass home when she went out alone after promising me she wouldn't, did I? "I couldn't just stand by and let you go to New York with that... Sleazeball. He has an alarming reputation. None of his assistants have lasted more than three months, and they're never retained by the company. I don't want that for you, baby." I know she loves the field she's in more than anything, and SIP is a great place for her right now. I exhale long and slow. "I don't want anything to happen to you. You being hurt... The thought fills me with dread. I can't promise not to interfere, not if I think you'll come to harm." I pray she understands that, can accept that. I take a deep breath and brace myself for the words I'm about to say. "I love you, Anastasia"-why does that open up a huge, empty hole inside of me?-"I will do everything in my power to protect you. I cannot imagine my life without you."

She freezes in front of me, surprised, and then suddenly her eyes seem to melt into mine.

"I love you too, Christian." She leans in to kiss me softly, but it deepens quickly.

Across the room, unseen, Taylor clears his throat.

Reluctantly, I pull away from the kiss. He wouldn't interrupt if it weren't important. I stand up, keeping my arm around Ana's waist.

"Yes?" My voice sounds sharp, directed at Taylor.

"Mrs. Lincoln is on her way up, sir," he reports.

"What?"

He only shrugs, clearly apologetic.

I sigh heavily, shaking my head, exasperated at this woman's tenacity. I already called her off this afternoon. I was harsh with her, probably harsher than needed, but I was in a crappy mood. I told her not to go near Ana, she had no interest, and now she's coming here? Is it because she knows she'll be here, so she'll be able to talk to her?

I turn to Ana now. "Well, this should be interesting," I say with a resigned smile.

It's clear Anastasia is not happy about our visitor, but what can I do about it now? She's nearly here.

"Did you talk to her today?" she asks after a stony moment of silence.

"Yes," I tell her. I told her I would.

"What did you say?" she asks.

"I said that you didn't want to see her, and that I understood your reasons why. I also told her that I didn't appreciate her going behind my back."

"What did she say?"

"She brushed it off in a way that only Elena can do." I suppress my amused smirk. I know it wouldn't sit well with Anastasia. I will always be impressed-amused, at the least-by the kind of woman Elena Lincoln is.

"Why do you think she's here?" she inquires now.

"I have no idea," I answer honestly, shrugging.

Taylor is back. "Mrs. Lincoln," he announces.

Elena, dressed all in black, as per usual, steps into the great room.

I pull Anastasia close by my side, mostly to ensure her that I'm here. "Elena," I greet her, confused by her unexpected visit. She usually calls first, and I notice now that she looks slightly out of sorts, frazzled.

She stands frozen in place, staring at Anastasia with outright shock, and I realize that maybe she didn't expect her to be here, which confuses me even more.

"I'm sorry," she finally apologizes. "I didn't realize you had company, Christian. It's Monday," she says in way of justification. I'm rooted to the spot by the shock that hits when I realize that maybe Elena and I aren't as close as I thought. She clearly still believes me to involved in the lifestyle I am surely trying to leave behind.

"Girlfriend," I explain, casting her a cool smile. I have to admit, I'm slightly offended by her obliviousness. I thought she was more invested than that, understood me more than that. _Believed _in me more than that. Because that's what it comes down to, right? Suddenly, for the first time, I feel some hostility toward this woman.

She is supposed to be one of my closest friends, my only friend in fact. Elena is the one I confide in. She knows about my situation-the fact that I consider Ana my girlfriend now, and that I'm done with the Dom lifestyle. That's not something you just mention in casual conversation. That's a big deal, and obviously, Elena didn't take it as such. Which makes me wonder if she takes me seriously or not.

But now, unexpectedly, she grins hugely at me, which makes me wonder if any of my former thoughts even hold any grip to them at all.

"Of course," she says, "Hello, Anastasia. I didn't know you'd be here. I know you don't want to talk to me. I accept that," she says directly to her.

"Do you?" Ana says, taking Elena and I-at least; maybe even herself-by surprise.

Clearly displeased with Ana's assertiveness, a small frown grazes Elena's face as she steps further into the room. "Yes, I get the message," she assures her, "I'm not here to see you. Like I said, Christian rarely has company during the week." She pauses for a moment, suddenly appearing anxious. "I have a problem, and I need to talk to Christian about it," she admits.

My curiosity peaks. "Oh? Do you want a drink?"

"Yes, please." She sounds grateful for the offer.

I leave Ana's side and go into the kitchen to retrieve a wine glass. I pour wine for the three of us as Elena sits first at one of the bar stools, and then, surprising me, so does Anastasia. They leave a vacant seat between them, and I take it.

"What's up?" I ask Elena.

She glances anxiously at Anastasia, and I reach for Ana's hand. She can stay if she likes. I have no issue with that.

"Anastasia's with me now," I tell Elena firmly, confidently. I tighten my hold on her hand.

I think something sinks in for her, because her face softens, and she looks suddenly very pleased.

She composes herself and takes a breath, shifting and looking really very uncomfortable. I've never seen her like this, and I don't know if it's because Anastasia is present, or if it's for another reason. She drops her nervous gaze to her hands, spinning a large silver ring around and around her middle finger.

Finally, she lifts her gaze to mine.

"I'm being blackmailed," she states.

_Well, shit. That I wasn't expecting._

This is bad, really bad, and I feel myself stiffen in response to her words. My worst nightmare, come true in my closest friend's life.

"How?" I hear myself blurt, horrified for her.

She reaches into her purse and produces a note, handing it over to me.

"Put it down, lay it out," I instruct, gesturing to the clean counter top with my chin.

"You don't want to touch it?" she asks, confused.

"No. Fingerprints."

"Christian, you know I can't go to the police with this." Her voice is dubious. She lays the note out and I lean forward to read it.

It's pretty specific about details regarding her lifestyle, mentioning a few names, listing personal information they have of theirs, and of course, the threat of exposing her to her many employees, investors, family and friends. They are requesting five thousand dollars, which almost makes me want to laugh.

"They're only asking for five thousand dollars. Any idea who it might be? Someone in the community?"

"No."

"Linc?"

"What-after all this time? I don't think so," she says, disgruntled.

"Does Isaac know?" I question, referring to her current sub, whom she hasn't mentioned much of, but talks about in passing, sometimes.

"I haven't told him," she reports.

"I think he needs to know," I tell her.

She shakes her head in denial.

Suddenly, I feel Ana attempting to tug her hand from mine. I turn to her.

"What?"

"I'm tired," she explains, as uncomfortable as Elena. "I think I'll go to bed."

It's still early, and I search her eyes, wondering if she's lying. Clearly, she doesn't like Elena being here, and I wonder if this is somehow going to get passed off on me. If she'll be angry with me later. I stare into her eyes, trying to make out what she's thinking, but I can't tell. I pray she won't be angry, that she accepts this for what it is-a friend coming to a friend during a hard time-and that there won't be a fight about it later.

"Okay. I won't be long," I finally tell her.

I let her hand go, and she can't stand up faster. She and Elena stare at each other for a moment, impassive.

"Good night, Anastasia," Elena tells her, giving her a small, polite smile.

"Good night," Ana returns, and her voice sounds cold and distant, which makes me unhappy. Can't she just be nice? Is that too much to ask? She turns to leave and I return my attention to Elena.

"I don't think there's a great deal I can do, Elena," I tell her apologetically, "If it's a question of money... I could ask Welch to investigate."

"No, Christian, I just wanted to share," she assures me. She pauses for a moment, taking a sip of her wine. "You look very happy."

"I am." Without question.

"You deserve to be."

Something inside me locks up, hearing her say that. "I wish that were true."

"Christian," she admonishes, reaching for my hand. Before she gets there, I slide it off the counter top and knot my fists together in my lap, out of her reach. "Does she know how negative you are about yourself? About all your issues."

"She knows me better than anyone." My voice sounds tight, strained. _But still not well enough, _another voice points out.

"Ouch! That hurts." She appears wounded.

"It's the truth, Elena," I tell her, "I don't have to play games with her. And I mean it, leave her alone." My voice turns hard, stern toward the end.

It's clear she's displeased with that. She's never liked me telling her what to do, and honestly, I can't blame her. But she still needs to be respectful of the woman I love.

"What is her problem?" she sneers.

"You... What we were. What we did. She doesn't understand."

"Make her understand," she insists.

I can feel my temper rising, my tolerance decreasing. "It's in the past, Elena, and why would I want to taint her with our fucked-up relationship? She's good and sweet and innocent, and by some miracle she loves me."

"It's no miracle, Christian," she assures me, "Have a little faith in yourself. You really are quite a catch. I've told you often enough. And she seems lovely, too," she admits, "Strong. Someone to stand up to you."

I can't help but smile. "She's very strong," I confirm quietly, "Strong enough to show me that I can be someone different. I don't need... That."

"Don't you miss it?"

"What?" I ask her warily.

"Your playroom."

I feel a visceral reaction to her words.

"That really is none of your fucking business," I snap at her.

She blinks, taken off guard by my outburst. "I'm sorry." But she doesn't sound sorry.

"I think you'd better go," I tell her, "And please, call before you come again."

I'm on my feet now, and she reaches for my shoulder, her eyes sincere. "Christian, I am sorry," she promises, "Since when are you so sensitive?"

I step back so that her hand falls away. "Elena, we have a business relationship that has profited us both immensely. Let's keep it that way. What was between us is part of the past. Anastasia is my future, and I won't jeopardize it in any way, so cut the fucking crap."

She looks crestfallen, beginning to gather her things. Her eyes are turned away as she murmurs, "I see." She looks hurt, and suddenly I feel bad, the anger dissipating.

What's happening to us, to our friendship?

"Look, I'm sorry for your trouble. Perhaps you should ride it out and call their bluff," I advise.

"I don't want to lose you, Christian." Her tone is ashamed, concerned, and filled with too much meaning that I can't begin to decipher.

"I'm not yours to lose, Elena," I bark at her.

"That's not what I meant," she argues.

"What did you mean?"

"Look," she says, raising a hand, palm forward as she slings her purse over her shoulder, still seated, "I don't want to argue with you. Your friendship means a lot to me. I'll back off from Anastasia. But I'm here if you need me. I always will be."

I don't know what to think anymore, and suddenly, I think back to something Anastasia said.

"Anastasia thinks that you saw me last Saturday. You called, that's all. Why did you tell her otherwise?" I demand. If she's as well-meaning and sincere as she says she is, why is she being so manipulative?

Elena's eyes darken slightly, broodingly. "I wanted her to know how upset you were when she left. I don't want her to hurt you."

"She knows. I've told her. Stop interfering. Honestly, you're like a mother hen." I know even before I've said the words, that it may do little to stop her. Elena is very set in her ways, just as I am, and she's going to interfere if she sees reason to. Suddenly, it dawns on me, that this is the way things are with Anastasia and me at the moment. She's feeling stifled and fed up with my insistence on being involved with everything, and I'm feeling the same way about Elena.

It makes me think, really think.

Elena laughs, but there's a strange, melancholy undertone to it. "I know. I'm sorry," she apologizes for what seems like the millionth time. "You know I care about you. I never thought you'd end up falling in love, Christian. It's very gratifying to see. But I couldn't bear it if she hurt you."

"I'll take my chances. Now, are you sure you don't want Welch to sniff around?"

She exhales heavily. "I suppose it wouldn't do any harm," she consents.

"Okay. I'll call him in the morning." I add it to my mental to-do list.

"Thank you, Christian. And I am sorry. I didn't mean to intrude. I'll go. Next time I'll call." She stands now.

"Good."

I walk her to the foyer, and see her into the elevator.

I go to find Anastasia, who is sitting on my bed.

"She's gone," I tell her, anxiety opening up in my stomach again. I never know with Anastasia. She can be such an open book at times, and then so closed off at others. This is one of those other times, and in light of the day we've had, I'd really like not to fight anymore.

She stares at me for a moment. "Will you tell me all about her?" she inquires, a question I was not expecting in the least. She's always been so adverse to knowing anything about Elena. "I am trying to understand why you think she helped you." She pauses. "I loathe her, Christian. I think she did you untold damage. You have no friends. Did she keep them away from you?"

I sigh, running a hand through my hair, exasperated by the turn her questions have taken-probing about things I really hate to talk about. And why the hell is she suddenly so interested in Elena?

"Why the fuck do you want to know about her? We had a very long-standing affair, she beat the shit out of me often, and I fucked her in all sorts of ways you can't even imagine, end of story."

I know my answer is short, but so many things have come up with Elena this evening, and I don't feel like defending her, shedding a good light on her, nothing of the sort. I don't want to talk about it.

She blinks at me. "Why are you so angry?" she asks.

"Because all of that shit is _over_!" I explode. I sigh and shake my head again.

Her gaze falls to her fingers, which are knotted in her lap. She looks hurt, wary, scared even, and my unreasonable anger fades. I go to sit by her.

"What do you want to know?" I ask, trying to be tolerable, feeling horrible that I've scared her.

"You don't have to tell me," she mumbles, "I don't mean to intrude."

"Anastasia, it's not that," I insist, "I don't like talking about this shit. I've lived in a bubble for years with nothing affecting me and not having to justify myself to anyone. She's always been there as a confidante. And now my past and my future are colliding in a way I never thought possible." It's terrifying, and I stare at her openly, wondering what my expression betrays.

She looks up at me.

"I never thought I had a future with anyone, Anastasia," I continue, "You give me hope and have me thinking about all sorts of possibilities." I stop myself, drifting off... _Moving in together, buying a house... marriage..._

"I was listening," she whispers, and her gaze falls to her hands again.

"What? To our conversation?" I'm surprised that she would eavesdrop.

"Yes," she admits.

"Well?"

"She cares for you," she points out.

"Yes, she does," I agree, "And I for her in my own way, but it doesn't come close to how I feel about you. If that's what this is about."

"I'm not jealous." She sounds offended. "You don't love her," she mumbles after a moment.

I sigh again, trying to lift some inexplicable load off my chest that just won't go. "A long time ago, I thought I loved her," I admit through a locked jaw. That is hard to admit. I was stupid and young and didn't know what I was thinking, what I was feeling.

"When we were in Georgia... You said you didn't love her," she says.

"That's right."

She frowns, confused.

"I loved you then, Anastasia," I explain in a whisper, even though I didn't know it then, but it's obvious now, "You're the only person I'd fly three thousand miles to see."

The corners of her mouth turn down even more, and that v-shaped pucker appears between her eyebrows.

"The feelings I have for you are very different from any I ever had for Elena."

"When did you know?" she asks, and I know she is referring to my love for her.

I shrug. "Ironically, it was Elena who pointed it out to me. She encouraged me to go to Georgia."

She only gazes at me, silent. She seems lost in thought for a moment, shaking her head at some notion.

Finally, she speaks. "So you desired her? When you were younger."

"Yes." She seems surprised by this, so I explain: "She taught me a great deal. She taught me to believe in myself."

"But she also beat the shit out of you," she points out.

I smile at the irony. Wasn't that the way. "Yes, she did."

"And you liked that?"

"At the time I did."

"So much that you wanted to do it to others?"

_Fuck. _This is getting deeper than I thought it would. But some unconscious part of myself pushes on to answer, despite the fear of what her reaction will be: "Yes."

"Did she help you with that?"

"Yes," I admit.

"Did she sub for you?"

"Yes."

Surprise registers on her face once again. "Do you expect me to like her?" she asks bitterly.

"No," I say, relieved that we seem to be back on safer ground, "Though it would make my life a hell of a lot easier. I do understand your reticence." Or at least I believe myself to.

"Reticence!" she repeats, appalled, "Jeez, Christian-if that were your son, how would you feel?"

I blink at her, not understanding the question. My lips turn down. "I didn't have to stay with her. It was my choice too, Anastasia," I murmur, hoping this somewhat answers her question. I'm doing the best I can here.

She blinks, and seems to drop it, moving on to another topic. "Who's Linc?"

I wasn't aware she was paying such close attention to our conversation.

"Her ex-husband."

"Lincoln Timber?" she clarifies.

"The very same," I confirm, smirking.

"And Isaac?"

"Her current submissive."

Horror drains her eyes, and her cheeks appear to pale. I'm shocked that she would have such a reaction, and then I realize it must be because she thinks he's underage.

"He's in his mid-twenties, Anastasia. You know-a consenting adult."

"Your age."

"Look, Anastasia," I move on, ignoring that, "as I said to her, she's part of my past. You are my future. Don't let her come between us, please. And quite frankly, I'm really bored of this subject. I'm going to do some work." I stand and gaze down at her for a moment. "Let it go. Please."

She gazes back at me, her chin jutting stubbornly.

"Oh, I almost forgot," I say, remembering the call I got late this afternoon. "Your car arrived a day early. It's in the garage. Taylor has the key."

She looks excited. "Can I drive it tomorrow?"

My answer is immediate. "No."

"Why not?" she whines.

"You know why not. And that reminds me. If you are going to leave your office, let me know. Sawyer was there, watching you. It seems I can't trust you to look after yourself at all."

"Seems I can't trust you either," is her rebuttal, "You could have told me Sawyer was watching me."

"Do you want to fight about that, too?" I bark. My patience is a thin, short, live wire today.

"I wasn't aware we were fighting. I thought we were communicating," she mutters testily.

I force myself to close my eyes and count backwards from five. I need to stay composed. My anger is the ruling emotion right now, but I do not want to let it control what I do or say in this moment. Rational Christian does not want to fight anymore tonight. Rational Christian is sick of fighting.

"I have to go work." And I leave the room, before I get myself into something I'll regret.


	52. An Author's NoteI'm Back

_Hello, my lovelies! I cannot believe how long it has been since I have updated this story! Like, I honestly can't believe it. How has it been over a year?_

_._

_My life has been insanely busy since then. Since I updated last, we've added another beautiful member to our family; she is nearly six weeks old, and her big sister absolutely adores her._

_._

_I want to apologize for my abrupt and inexusably long hiatus. Honestly, things just kind of got away from me. I put off writing the next chapter, and a week would pass, and I'd say to myself, "Okay, I'll sit down tomorrow and write it" and then another week would pass and, well, here we are… a year and a few months later._

_I appreciate your extreme patience, and I'm so sorry for the ones who have been waiting… and waiting… and waiting…_

_._

_But I'm back now! So be prepared for a chapter tomorrow-and no later, I PROMISE!_

_._

_3 _

_xo_


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